Revival
by Anna Christy
Summary: When Angel and Buffy meet again by chance, nothing goes as planned and Angel must find a way to change the past before they both fall into darkness. AU, AB
1. Five Years Isn't Forever

She paused to catch her breath and wipe a sheen of sweat from her face, brushing back a strand of dark blonde hair. The late afternoon was sunny and clear. She looked back at the trail she had hiked so far; it curled up the mountainside like a thin snake and wouldn't have appeared on any map. She had started out this morning from the most remote forest station in Montana and was now in total wilderness. Well, almost total. Mike's cabin was less than two miles uphill, if his directions were accurate. She shifted the heavy pack on her shoulders; shouldn't have loaded all that gear, she thought.

Angel was waiting for her at Mike's. She gnawed on that idea as she braced herself and continued climbing. It had been a long time but had anything changed? For one, she was five years older than the last time they met. Yet somehow the thought of Angel was still able to set her mind reeling in confusion and emotion. She hadn't forgotten enough memories. It's going to fall into one of those awkward silences and that'll be it. Just try to keep the mood light. Get the job done, get out, thankyouverymuch and goodbye. God, if only Willow had been able to find another one of those axe things!

The Blessed Axe of Saint Jacques was a one-of-a-kind hunting antique from the early days of France. They had searched the world over and pulled every string of every contact with no results-- except for Angel.

"Ahem. Um, there's a certain nonbreathing someone in Los Angeles who might, I don't know, have old French axes lying around. Or hanging up," Xander mumbled one night over leftover pizza. He hated to mention it, but it was their last and only option. Willow had contacted him that night and sure enough, there it was. Figures. And of course he insisted on coming along, maybe for more reasons than "you can't UPS a hunting ax." Lame excuse anyway. Maybe he had some experience in dealing with evil Kobolds.

According to Mike, the troll-like creatures had tunneled in from Canada and set up home in an old mine shaft under the very mountain she was hiking up. Mike Norman, a friend of Giles, had called them two weeks ago to request a favor.

"Normally they don't attack unless they're provoked, but these suckers have taken to going after the campers and forest patrol over at the national campground," he explained. "They're the best blacksmiths around, so you're gonna need a hell of a good weapon. A Blessed Ax is the only thing around nowadays." He paused. "Sorry if this seems a little sudden, but Kobolds are vicious little beasts and I'm getting too old for killing the bad guys."

At the time she had thought something naive, like "camping trip" or "brisk day of hiking." Now there was Angel to deal with and her muscles were screaming from the uphill climb. But it was a nice break from Southern California Hellmouth activities, she admitted. The fresh air was... well, refreshing. As she rounded a bend, Mike's cabin was suddenly there.

The squat, mossy-covered cabin was old yet cozy with a sagging porch. Mike was a self-proclaimed hermit and had a pilot fly in supplies at the lake twice a week. She hadn't been too sure what to expect--maybe a crazy bearded man?--and was suprised to find him drinking a beer on the porch steps. He sprung up at her appearance and loped forward with a big grin. He did have a bushy mountain-man beard, but it was tamed like a grandfather's.

"Buffy Summers, I presume! Well how the hell are ya!" He took off her heavy pack without asking and slung it over a shoulder, leading her to the cabin.

"Sweaty. Stinky. Pretty good, Mr.Norman."

"Oh call me Mike," he said with a dismissing wave. "Man, am I glad to see you. That other kid isn't much for the light chitchat, but then most vampires aren't." He gave a boom of a laugh that sent a few birds from the pines.

She didn't try to even chuckle along. Her mouth had dried up and her heart beat palpably. Christ, he could probably hear it from inside the cabin. Mike kicked the door open and filled up the tiny hallway as he carried her gear to a spare cot. "Yeah the place is crowded, so y'all can share the kitchen space. I've got my room, but there's so much junk I can hardly sleep there myself." A huge mutt barked from another room. "Oh that's just Big Devil, he's friendly enough. You don't have dog allergies?"

"No..." She frowned. Big Devil?

Suddenly someone else was in the small cabin kitchen. He stood by the iron stove, in the shadows. She caught her breath for a second, then remembered control. Keep it light, keep it business. Mike set down her pack and glanced up, sensing a change in the mood. "I'll go get some fish started up," he excused himself.

"Hey." He was the first to speak, shifting slightly in the shadows.

"Hey." She registered that he looked the same. That ever immortal face.

"How was--"

"Good," she rushed, then backed up. "I mean, fine. A little tired." A lot tired and in dire need of a shower; she was painfully aware of her sweated appearance. "You have the axe?"

"Yeah. Spent some of the morning sharpening it up."

"Good. Okay."

He cleared his throat awkwardly. She wanted to move, to unpack, but she stood rooted. Oh God. "How...how have you been?" he ventured tentatively, as if walking on glass.

"I've managed. You?" Keep it to a minimum.

"Not much changes." He tried to joke a little. The amount of suppressed emotion and tension was beginning to fill the room. "Buffy..."

That way he said it, she could nearly taste the feeling. A tight ache in the chest. But things had happened since then, she had changed, life had gone on. "Listen. We camp out for a day or two, kill the troll thingies, and go home. Let's not make this--"

"--more than it needs to be." He finished her thought and nodded slowly. He was a mask and she couldn't read what he was thinking.

"Right. So." She took a deep breath and bent to unzip her pack. "We scout out the mine tonight, make our move tomorrow. How many are we dealing with?"

He seemed relieved to discuss business. "No more than five. They don't live in large clans. I brought along a second axe; it's not blessed, but it should hold the Kobolds off."

Buffy nodded. "And the mine shaft is...?"

"Right at the base of the mountain, I passed the old entrance trail yesterday. Shouldn't be too hard to access."

Mike stuck his head into the room, holding a fish kabob. "Trout's ready! Who's hungry?" He glanced at Angel and then boomed a laugh again. "Guess only one, right? C'mon, I'll show you the maps of the mine awhile." He gestured for them to follow.

Buffy wolfed down the delicious fish as politely as possible, Big Devil licking his chops the entire time. Her lunch had been an apple and a granola bar. She guessed that Angel was storing some food of his own in Mike's beer cooler. Reaching into said cooler, Mike snapped open another Coors and spritzed a bit of foam over the mine shaft maps. He spread them out with a palm and pointed to a faded red triangle in the far left corner. Buffy peered over the picnic table, catching a whiff of Angel's scent--was it cologne?--in the process.

"Now. Here's the entrance; base of the mountain. Angel knows how to get there, am I right?"

Angel nodded curtly. He wasn't too friendly with Mike, Buffy noticed. The bearded hermit moved his finger diagonally, tracing the shaft descent. "This is going down pretty far here, but the Kobolds are gonna be hiding out on this first level. It dead ends about two hundred feet in, so you can't get turned around."

Buffy interrupted. "You're sure they're on the first level?"

Mike took a swig of beer. "They're miners but they come up quick to be getting at these rangers. Any farther underground and it's hard to hunt. Besides," he lowered his tone seriously, "the shaft's decades old and it's not safe for your pretty little self, structure-speaking. Wooden planks rot."

"Understood." She resisted the urge to ask for seconds and instead downed the rest of her water. Big Devil was splayed on a woven rug, woefully eyeing the trout remains.

"It'll be dark soon." Angel noticed the lengthening orange strips of light inside the cabin. "We should start out early, give ourselves time to look around." It was a decision, not a suggestion. He had the ability to build up a cold shell of objectivity, and Buffy realized he was determined to stick by the vow of business only. She felt a small well of ... regret? It stayed only a moment before she pushed it aside with equal detachment.

"We'll need flashlights, weapons. I don't want these Kobolds giving us a welcome party."

Mike interjected. "I've got a crossbow, some daggers in the cellar."

The sun spread its last red rays across the tips of evergreens, then winked out on the horizen. A hazy glow remained to hold back the night for a few more minutes. "You'll see the best stars in the Northwest out here," Mike sighed, looking east.

"Yeah?" Buffy glanced up in mild interest. Stargazing wasn't high on her agenda.

"Let's see the crossbow." Angel brushed past them.


	2. Something Familiar

The white wash of the flashlight lit fragments of the forest, the rest lost in murky darkness. Buffy followed Angel's heavy tread down the faint entrance trail. She held the crossbow ready at her side with two daggers fastened to her belt. Angel had settled for a short sword. The crunch of their footsteps was the sole sound, save for an owl hooting in the distance. Well this was a nice tense stroll, Buffy thought. Nothing like total silence to break five years of ice. You're not exactly trying, either, she chided.

"Pretty big forest." She winced; how did that manage to sound better in her head?

"Yeah."

"I guess you haven't been camping in a while either? I mean, of course not, you live in a city. The last time was with Willow and Xander and there was a thing with this giant spider so we didn't really stay that long and come to think of it, it was actually pouring the whole time and the tent leaked..." She forced herself to stop rambling. Angel paused and turned, the flashlight creating a pale glow on his face. "And, um... This whole ice-breaker game isn't so fun after all."

"I thought you wanted to keep this as business."

"I do-- it is," she rushed. "I just think we should do less of the stony silence and more of the friendly banter."

"Friendly banter?" Buffy detected a small smile.

"You know, jokes about Kobolds and sarcastic remarks about Mike's cooler of Coors in the middle of Montana wilderness." She smiled when Angel did. They continued down the trail, the mood considerably lightened.

"He tried to coerce me into having a Bloody Mary. It would have been a pretty good punchline, I guess." Angel gave a rare, soft laugh that Buffy had nearly forgotten. It released a stream of memories, like looking through a photo album.

"I can't imagine what Mike and Giles have in common. He seems like the kind of guy Giles would glare at."

"Not the library type," Angel agreed.

Her sneaker stubbed a root and she overcompensated the next step, slipping on the dry leaves and pine needles. She reached out for a tree trunk support, but Angel's hand found her first. "Watch for those roots," he said quietly. She felt his close presence so acutely that his hand was like fire on her arm, though it was cool to the touch.

"Got it." She recovered and strode past him, cursing her klutzy mistake. You're not a teenager, Buffy, she thought. She rounded the next twist in the trail and froze. "Home sweet home."

The gaping maw of the mine entrance was typical spookiness. A hollow whistling issued out as wind swept through old tunnels, and the glare of her flashlight was eaten up by the gloom. Buffy pointed to the trampled weeds by the entrance. "Looks like somebody's home." She panned the flashlight over and frowned. "And hungry." The nearby leaves were splattered with dark dried blood.

"Over a day old, human." Angel peered into the mine shaft with a faintly worried expression.

"What is it?" Buffy held the crossbow cocked on her hip.

"I don't know... Something isn't right. The scent is strange."

"The blood is weird?"

He shook his head. "No, whatever's living down there. It's almost familiar... I can't place it."

"Thanks for the cryptic. Hey, it's hard being a Kobold; no bath, live in a mine, eat humans..." She looked around for any further evidence but the site was clearly deserted tonight. She registered Angel's warning and filed it away, noting that she should be on high alert the following night.

"I'm serious, Buffy."

"Fifteen people are dead. I'm nothing but serious," she said coldly. So much for that easygoing mood.

There was a chilled silence. She gave one final sweep around the area. "There's no one out tonight. We can head back tomorrow night with the Axe and finish this. Right now... it's past my bedtime." She wanted to rush back and crawl into her sleeping bag where it was safe and familiar.

The old-fashioned kerosene lamp lit the cabin with plenty of shadows. Mike didn't get much in the way of electricity. Buffy let down her hair and leaned over the sink, pouring a pitcher of spring water over her sweated head. Far from the desired shower and definitely not recommended hair care, she thought. She splashed the remainder of the cool water on her face. God, that felt good. Drying her hair with a thin dish towel, she padded back into the kitchen, and then hung back for a moment as Angel finished changing. The tattoo on his right shoulder disappeared under a clean shirt. She bit her lip and went to unroll her sleeping bag.

"Can I um, turn off the lamp now?" she asked, glancing over.

"Yeah, sure," he grunted. It wasn't like he needed it to see in the dark, Buffy remembered.

The flame died down and let the complete night of inner Montana seep in. She snuggled deep into her sleeping bag and smelled the faint odor of mothballs from her house. Willow was probably in bed after a late night at the magic shop and Xander would have finished with business papers a few hours ago. Buffy could feel the vast loneliness of the mountains; it was a total vacuum of humanity for miles. She took a little comfort in Angel's presence across the small room.


	3. No Happy Ending

Big Devil's paws thumped across the floor, rousing her. Mike's footsteps creaked after the mutt: "Come on big boy, you done slobbering everywhere?"

It was past dawn and thick beams of light were suppressed behind the shades. Buffy rubbed sand from her eyes and stretched, reaching to let the midmorning light in. She halted as she caught sight of Angel still sleeping. That was close, she thought. Nothing like a third degree burn to wake you up. She quietly slid out of the sleeping bag and grabbed a comb and toothbrush from her pack.

The cabin was silent and birds cawed from outside. She looked out the open bathroom window and saw Big Devil sniffing a tree trunk a ways down the path. After putting her hair back up, she prowled around until she found the cooler. The ice cold water washed away the last remnants of sleep and she went outside to find Mike.

"Miss Summers!" he called, waving. "How'd you sleep?"

She smiled. "Well enough." The forest was much less menacing than it had appeared last night and the sky was again a perfect blue.

"Mind if I show you around today? Unless you want to keep the poor guy company in the cellar," he laughed.

It hadn't occurred to her that they would have to kill time until tonight. "What's there to see?"

"Miles River waterfall!" As an afterthought, "You do swim, right?"

"Like a fish."

The Miles River waterfall was a five mile hike from the cabin but worth the effort. It was a forty foot drop into a clear pool that eventually drained into a wide, pandering river. Mike reclined on a sunny rock, wearing ridiculously large aviators and sipping a Coors. Buffy waded in with Big Devil and felt guilty for enjoying the refreshing water; Angel was back at the cabin, probably reading or exercising. One step outside in this weather and he would be fried, she thought. She forced herself to stop thinking about it. Enjoy the water. She dipped under the surface and watched a school of tiny fish dart through the rocky bottom. This whole nature thing wasn't too bad. Buffy stretched out and swam luxuriously through the shallow pool, wishing she had brought a real bathing suit instead of a sports bra and shorts.

"You don't get much time to yourself, do you?" Mike asked as she surfaced.

She wiped water from her face and stared. "What do you mean?"

"I can tell how much you're enjoying this little vacation. You must not get many."

Buffy shook her head and stepped out to join him on the flat rock. "It isn't exactly part of the job description."

Mike nodded. "It's tough, especially for a social girl like you. I used to be a Watcher; I know the strain it puts on a person."

"You were a Watcher?"

Mike raised an eyebrow. "Giles didn't tell you, huh. Well, it was a long time ago." He scratched his beard. "The girl died."

Buffy looked over at the waterfall, not sure what to say. "I'm sorry."

"Everyone's sorry when something like that happens. It was a bad fight with a demon in New York, just didn't get lucky. So much of the job is luck, you know. You can train and train…"

"What was her name?"

He paused. "Emma."

They watched the spray of the waterfall billow up in transparent clouds and then fade away in the sunshine. Buffy shivered as a cool breeze touched the last drops of water on her skin.

The sun was low on the horizon when they finally finished the trek back to the cabin. Angel was waiting on the porch, where there was ample shade. "How did it go?" he asked as Buffy came up the sagging steps.

She gave a small smile. "Just like the country club pool." As if he knew what that even looked like. "It was nice. How was…"

He half-laughed softly. "You don't have to feel guilty about it, Buffy. Really."

"What? Oh, well, I wasn't having feelings of guilt…okay maybe a little…"

Mike ushered Big Devil inside. "Let me just rustle up some sandwiches in here, then we'll discuss what all's going down tonight." He trudged into the kitchen and they soon heard the banging of cupboards being opened.

"You ready to kill some Kobolds?" Buffy asked casually, kicking off her sneakers.

"Been waiting all weekend for it." He hesitated before saying more. "When this is all over, do we pretend there's still nothing here? Isn't that why you haven't visited LA in five years?"

She sighed and braced herself up against the porch railing. "I'm not in high school anymore, Angel. I have a job, mortgage payments, and a health insurance policy that doesn't cover 'injuries inflicted by slaying supernatural beings'."

"And that changes things between us?"

"It's…it's just hard to see you. Believe me, the slayer doesn't get that happy ending… But every time, it's like looking at what I could have had."

He sighed and leaned next to her on the railing. "You can have a happy ending if you want it enough, Buffy."

Mike returned with two ham sandwiches that were oddly cut without the crusts. "Big Devil loves the bread crusts," he explained, taking one. "I hope I'm not interrupting?"

Buffy cleared her throat. The conversation was undoubtedly to be continued. "No, no. So about the mine shaft tonight?"

"Ah yes." He reached behind him and pulled out a lamp. "Take this with you. If it goes out, there's lethal natural gas and you should get the hell out, Kobolds or not."

"A gas mask would've been easier," Buffy grumbled.

Angel volunteered a solution. "I'll take the lamp, you take the Axe and I can back you up."

"You kids remember the map I showed you yesterday?"

"Yeah."

"Good, cause you can't be carrying it with you. Here's a flare if anything goes wrong. You can see this sucker for miles, so know you'll have all of Uncle Sam and his brother there within twenty, thirty minutes."

"I'll go get the axe." Angel went inside to rummage around.

Buffy realized the sun was nearly gone and remembered Angel's warning from the previous night. She wanted to write it off as his imagination working overtime, but he wasn't the type to voice a concern over nothing. Though once he took to it, he was a professional worrier, she smiled to herself.

Mike noticed and winked. "If you don't mind my asking… You two old flames, or what?" he whispered.

"Long story," she said, ruefully. "It's that obvious?"

He waved a hand. "Eh, I grew up in the sixties. I know all about soul mate love. To an untrained eye, it'd seem like you popped out of the freezer." Mike whistled to Big Devil, who had wandered down the path. "Listen, you kids be careful out there tonight. It's a new moon; bad time for hunting."

She finished the last of her sandwich and stood to get her jacket. "If anything goes wacky, we'll make like the Fourth of July and send up the fireworks."

"Here it is." Angel brought out a hefty battle axe, shined and sharpened to perfection.

"Wow." Buffy gave it a quick appraisal. "Should we be chanting a ritual over it, or something?"

"Um… I think it just works on its own."

Mike delicately ran a finger along the edge. "One thousand years of blacksmithing knowledge, sanctified by Saint Jacques himself. Yep, this baby will slice the shit out of anything."

"Good to know," Buffy said slowly. "We should get going." It was already twilight and she wanted to get in and get back before dawn. The returning hike would not be friendly.

Angel pulled another axe from the duffel he had brought with him. It wasn't as impressive but had a vicious serrated edge. "Agreed."

She went to the kitchen and grabbed her own collection of assorted weaponry: a short sword, holy water, and a cutting knife she had taken from her new kitchen set. The lifetime guarantee had better be true. It was scarcely an armory but she could only carry so much along with the Blessed Axe. Screw it, time to kick some Kobold ass.

"Watch your backs," Mike said as they stepped off the porch. Big Devil whined nervously.


	4. A Twist of Fatal

She strode through the forest, following the path Angel had shown her the previous night. "I meant to visit. Eventually."

He was silent for a few minutes. "Was that going to be before or after you moved to Milan?" he said finally.

Ouch. She whirled around, upset that he knew and wanting to deny, deny. "Who told you that?"

"Does it matter? You could have at least had Willow call me, if you didn't have the guts to tell me yourself."

He was genuinely angry and Buffy quickly matched it with her fury and shame. She hadn't planned on giving notice at all. "You thought I was going to stay chained up in Southern California all my life? Sticking it to vamps in the local ma and pa cemetery?"

"You can't possibly be seeing The Immortal again." Angel referred to her one-time Italian romance a few years ago and couldn't keep a jealous inflection from his tone.

"This is all about _you_!" Buffy rounded on him. "You want _your_ happy ending, everything all wrapped up and tidy. You should've stayed with the fancy CEO job for that. In the real world, people change."

She winced inwardly—bad move. Thankfully she couldn't see his expression in the gloom. There was no reply and she felt the guilt weighing heavy. She wasn't honestly that angry at him; did she even mean all she said? It was Angel…

"I--I didn't mean that."

"Forget it," was the brusque reply.

Buffy stopped and faced him fully. His dark eyes were even more absorbing in the darkness. "I promise we'll talk about it later, okay?" she compromised softly, earnestly.

He shook his head. "You don't owe me anything, Buffy."

"I know… But I don't work well with the whole guilty thing. I'll mope."

"Bad habit."

The tension relaxed a little and they rounded the last bend to again encounter the mine shaft entrance. Mike's lantern flame burned steadily, taking away some of the eeriness that had seemed so tangible with the flashlights. She peered into the shaft but saw nothing. There _was _something wrong; her mind was sending out red siren alarms of danger. Get a grip, Buffy. She saw her knuckles were white from clutching the Blessed Axe. Maybe not that strong of a grip.

Angel glanced down at her. "You feel it too." It was a certainty, not a question.

"Yeah…" She had a tingle of foreboding, as if waking from a vague nightmare.

"Here goes nothing." Angel held the lantern in front of him and entered the mine shaft, Buffy close behind and wielding the Axe.

They were silent, listening for any telltale footsteps or shuffling. The shaft gradually declined and soon Angel had to bend to avoid scraping his head on the top. Shattered glass lightbulbs were strung along a wire on the wall, clearly decades old. A stale breeze continually sighed past them, flickering the lantern flame. So far no fatal fumes, Buffy thought.

"How far down--"

An unearthly screech descended upon them and Buffy had a split second to block some kind of mace as it reeled towards her. She grunted and then thrust back at the Kobold. The lantern illuminated grotesque blunt features set in a wide block of face.

"Hi there, princess!" Buffy chirped before swinging up the Blessed Axe in a cut that totally demolished the Kobold's head. A mosaic of brain matter appeared on the wall. "Eeeew…" She wrinkled her nose.

"That wasn't so bad," Angel noticed.

"Don't sound disappointed. I'm sure there's an all-powerful evil lurking around."

"Shh." He listened for a moment. "There's more coming. Four or five."

"Does the plan 'split up and chop up' sound good to you?"

"Always reliable."

They grinned. It just felt _right_, Buffy thought. You know you're a slayer when: bonding occurs while spilling brains.

Another ear-splitting cry and her arm nearly went numb from the force of a Kobold's blow to the Axe. To her left she saw Angel engage with two of the other clan members. Well if he could take two, so could she. She spun the Axe and jabbed forward with the end, catching a Kobold in the lower stomach. An arm grabbed her ankle and she swung down, hearing the scream as a limb was severed. Taking advantage of the Kobold's pain, she kicked it back and beheaded the troll with little resistance. She jerked back as one of them grabbed a handful of hair. "Son of a--! Don't pull a girl's hair to get her attention; what are you, eight?"

Angel gritted his teeth against a shout of pain as what seemed to be a medieval flail hit his side. Who the hell came up with that weapon, he thought angrily, reverting to his game face. He twisted the neck of the offending Kobold, then took the flail and shoved it through an eye socket.

"Angel?" She heard his shout and did a quick check.

"I'm fine!" he yelled back, swinging his axe through something that yielded.

Buffy slammed the Axe down on a third neck, her arms screaming that yes, they were going to wreck hell on her tomorrow. In the flickering lantern light she saw one of the last Kobolds scampering back along the wall in retreat. "Oh no, playtime is so not over yet." She grabbed her flashlight.

"Buffy, wait!" Angel saw her go further down the tunnel and felt a pit of dread open in his gut. _Something was wrong_. That certain scent he couldn't quite place… it was stronger. A Kobold swung with a broad sword and he leapt back, grabbing the troll by an arm and slamming it into the wall. He turned in time to deflect another mace, and then sliced neatly through an entire torso. When he looked up Buffy's flashlight beam had been devoured by the tunnel. "Buffy!"

The tunnel was wider and larger than at the entrance and she had a few feet between her head and the ceiling, although the Kobold was still outrunning her. She briefly wondered how such a cumbersome creature could move so quickly, and then remembered the knife she had packed. Running through a fork in the tunnel, she yanked out her Cutco Pro and took aim. The cutting knife hit like a javelin; the Kobold dropped forward and gave a final howl before she finished the job. Buffy let out a short sigh and inspected the Blessed Axe. More like Gory Axe now, she thought. And it smelled like dirty wet socks. "Dibs on _not_ cleaning this," she muttered.

It was pure slayer instinct that made her turn in time, putting up a defense as the thing tackled her, and then kicking it off into the wall. Buffy rolled to her feet and shone her flashlight at… "Yikes."

The supernaturally beautiful woman was barely clothed and hugged the wall, blinking in the sudden glare of light. Her eyes were golden saucers. Tilting her head, the woman studied Buffy a moment and then smiled with a mouthful of fangs. "A slayer they have brought me! The blood will run sweetly."

Buffy cursed; a vamp in a Montana cave? Even worse, no stake. And all the warning Angel had been able give was a 'bad feeling'? Figures. "Thanks for the imagery. So how comfortable is that dirty bikini?"

The vampire growled. "You underestimate me, child." She moved with catlike agility from the wall.

Buffy grabbed her bottle of holy water and splashed it out, delivering a roundhouse kick at the same time. The bitch was creepy but still just a vamp. The flashlight was jarred from her grasp and she heard a shriek as the holy water hit home. She swung the Blessed Axe in roughly the same area but hit nothing except for air. Okay, the speedy thing was going to be an issue. Buffy reached for the flashlight and barely missed a vicious kick to the stomach. She punched upward and connected with solid bone. Stake, she needed a stake! Wait--the Axe! Duh, beheadings worked just as well as a big toothpick. But the vamp was gone… What the hell? She knew her mistake the minute something slammed into the nape of her neck. The woman was above her, clinging to the grooves of the rock ceiling.

She fell hard to the floor and saw only variations of colorful white fireworks. The worst place to take a hit, Buffy, she managed to think quite clearly. Her spine felt like nails were tap-dancing on it. Where was Angel! Get up, get up! She was aware of hot breath on her neck and didn't quite feel the pain; it only intensified the visions of fireworks and gave a soothing pulse to the shooting needles in her back. Dazed beyond reality, she watched the bright spots of light fade to fuzziness and there was a distant ringing in her ears that grew very high. She focused on that fading light and followed it though.

_It was late afternoon. The cookie batter was sweet in her mouth. Joyce looked down and smiled, washing dishes. Her hands were warm and full of suds. A man sang on the radio. _

Angel couldn't explain the mounting panic he felt, a cold ice clutching his mind. He ran down the tunnel, almost extinguishing the lantern flame, and came to a fork in the path. Damn it! Catch her scent, find it… there… it was light, almost flowerlike. To the left. He halted again for a moment, smelling the overpowering scent of blood. And _vampire_. That's what was living down here, he thought in a flood of horror. "Buffy!" he called, praying for some kind of answer. Up ahead he saw the slain Kobold and wanted to smile at the professional kitchen knife plunged into its skull. "Buffy?"

There was a snarl of anger as the lantern light fell on a scene that froze Angel. _Oh God, no_. The scantily clad vampire leapt away from Buffy with amazing agility and resumed human features to lick blood from her lips. She was stunningly gorgeous and her golden eyes glinted at him. "You… I know of you. Angelus. We could be kindred spirits, you and I," she laughed, and crawled away against the wall at a supernatural pace.

He hardly heard what she said as he rushed to Buffy's side, scooping her up in a single fluid movement. Get her out of the mine, use the flare, find Mike, get help; his mind was flashing a thousand alarms at once. "Buffy? Buffy! Oh God, please don't do this, come on…"

In minutes he laid her gently on the pine needles outside the mine entrance. He moved her head to see how much damage had been done, but he already knew. The bite was full and deep; she had nearly been drained completely. A wave of nausea hit him, followed closely by an even more powerful wave of total hunger. He had tasted her before and at the memory he craved a second sampling. Angel spun away, disgusted at his own urges. _Get the flare!_ He pulled the flare gun from his belt and glanced again at Buffy. She was pale… too pale. Angel blocked out the fragrance of her blood and moved closer. Her heartbeat wasn't audible, even to his heightened hearing. There was blood on her lips… vampire blood. The world dropped out from under him: _She had been turned._She's dead, he thought with a strange disbelief.

She'll be alive, another part of him whispered.

As the thing she hunted? A soulless monster? Finish it now, before it takes her over… But he could never do it. He ran a hand through his hair in frustrated agony.

He looked at the delicate yet strong face he could draw from memory. The only woman he had ever been able to love with his soul. But her features were already taking on that deathlike quality, no more alive than carved wood, save for a rosy flush on her cheeks. He cradled her head in his lap with infinite care and gave her lips a soft brushing kiss.

He didn't know how long he sat there next to her. Hours passed into another and merged as one continuous night. It was a dream. His mind raced through circles of anguish, though one idea remained central: he _would_ restore her soul. He briefly remembered the trials he endured to save Darla's humanity, all to no avail in the end. He would go through tortures ten times as bad for Buffy. Angel blinked and suddenly became aware of the time; it was gray on the eastern sky. He would have to take her back to the cabin, he thought. The Blessed Axe could rot in the mine for all he cared. His consciousness was oddly detached and objective as he picked her up.


	5. The Damsel in Distress

Mike awoke mid-snore and untangled his limbs from a ratted blanket. Big Devil was roaring at the window like, well, a big devil. "Quiet, you dumb hound!" he shouted, grabbing the shotgun he always had under the bed. If that goddamned grizzly wandered by again, he thought foggily. He wrestled the mutt away from the window and squinted at the man coming up the cabin pathway. "Shit," he whispered.

He raced to the door, nearly tripping over a fishing box, and gave Big Devil a kick in the ribs to keep him from following outside. "What happened to her! I didn't hear the flare! Is she okay?" Mike was yelling questions before he was off the porch. Fuck, where in hell did he stash that first aid kit? Don't those things expire?

Angel's face was grimly set. "I just need to get her inside."

He gestured for him to hurry. "Well come on then, set her down on my bed. Christ, what am I supposed to tell Giles…" Looking at the horizon, he noticed it was nearly dawn. "You're cutting it pretty close there, pal."

Angel didn't respond. Big Devil growled menacingly as they entered, then backed away whining, tail between his legs. Mike was puzzled. "Easy boy, easy," he soothed. "Just lay her right here, and then I'll go find some medical--" He saw the gouged neck as Angel set her down on the bed. "Oh fuck."

"It was in the mine, hiding out, having the Kobolds bring it food."

"How bad?"

Angel paced back and forth in what little space he had, wanting to rip something off the wall. Instead he pulled shut the piece of cloth that served as a curtain. It would be dawn any minute, starting the longest day of his two-hundred-plus years.

"How bad?" Mike repeated, knowing the worst.

"Buffy… She…" He struggled with the words. "She's been turned," he choked out finally.

Mike felt his heart drop to his toes and then come up to his throat. Not her, he thought in despair. First Emma, now Buffy; even total solitude wasn't enough to escape grief. He sat down heavily, feeling pale and clammy. "I… I have to call Giles," he stammered. Just the thought of it made him want to vomit. "And she'll have to be…" Stabbed, staked, beheaded? He really was going to be sick, but the look on Angel's face stopped him cold. "You can't be serious."

"I am."

"A slayer as a _vampire_, are you out of your _mind_?" he shouted. "She'll drink me, stake you, and then we're shit out of luck! I'm not having a fucking vampire rising up in my own home!"

"I'm going to give her soul back, Mike. I know what it takes; I can do it." Angel was calm enough, but he would resort to force if Mike tried anything.

"_What?_ Even if you can, you of all people should know what that means! An eternity of living with a monster inside her head? You'll drive the girl crazy!" Mike confronted Angel and saw for the first time that he was on the brink of a dangerous cliff. His old Watcher instincts flickered for a moment. Push this much further and you might not have to wait for the girl to kill you, he thought. He gritted his teeth and tried to sort through the whirling storm of anger and denial.

"I know," he said deliberately, "I know that you two had…something. Just something you can recognize between people that have a deep history." He took a steadying breath. "Tell me this isn't about saving the person you loved."

"And if it is?" Angel whispered. He looked at Buffy with such infinite tenderness and desperation that Mike felt he had seen a man's soul bared.

"Then you're risking hundreds of innocent lives for a grossly selfish reason.""Don't you think I realize it?" he growled. Angel gripped the bed frame with such force he could hear the iron creak in protest. Then he seemed to crumple, sliding into one of the room's cluttered corners. "This can't be how it's supposed to happen… It can't be…" It all seemed like an unreal mistake. Any minute she would wake up, alive and well.

"It might not be," Mike suddenly said. "How it's supposed to happen." His mind was already working far ahead as Angel looked up. He paced the room, scratching his beard. "I mean, this is how tangent or alternate realities are created; happens all the time. One small action has major consequences and bam, you've got a whole other 'what if' world, the domino effect."

"What?" He thought of his human time with Buffy and his lost son Conner.

"You know, dominos, line 'em up--"

"I can just rewind the day…"

"Woah!" Mike held up a hand. "Slow down there, Superman. Tinkering with tangent realities is serious business."

"The Powers That Be, they did it before." Even as he said it, he realized there was no way to contact them now. No visions, no Oracles, and he doubted if another bonfire-like conduit would be made available to him. Their war was over and he was no longer considered a player of much importance.

Mike waved his suggestion away. "From what I've heard, you're not VIP material anymore. But you don't have to be Elvis to see the Cronos Mirror; you just have to get a ride to Arizona."

"The Cronos Mirror?" He stood up. "It was stolen centuries ago during the fall of the Greek empire and you're telling me it's in _Arizona?_"

Mike shrugged. "They took it to Spain, crossed the Atlantic, and some priest stuck it in a church basement. Happens all the time."

"How do I find it."

Mike's face fell a little. "Well, I'd have to do some research, maybe call a few people. It could take a while."

"We don't have the time!" Angel slammed a fist into the wall, splintering wood paneling. He seemed not to notice and instead resumed his pacing. "Assuming the Mirror even works--and I've heard it's pretty unreliable--we're talking about miles of travel!"

"Considering the alternative, it could be the best option," Mike argued back. He tried to control his anger. "But first… we gotta get this soul. Twelve hours until dusk and her rising."

Angel expelled a long sigh. "I'll have to make a call."

Willow clutched the phone, her knuckles white from the impact of the news. She was in the back room of the magic shop and sat with her knees tucked under her chin. A cat slept above empty storage crates. She had gone into thought for a moment and nearly missed what the caller asked.

"The Orb of Thessala? You think it'll work on her?" She sprung up and went to the front counter, unlocking the enchanted glass case. Among several other artifacts was the small reddish orb. "I saved the spell to disk, but it'd be better if I came up there myself." She listened for a moment, reddening. "Buffy's my best friend; I'm not going to just, just _sit by_ and have her go all 'eternal evil'!"

Back at the cabin, Angel was shaking his head as though he expected Willow to see him. Maybe she could. "You'd be handing her a chance to hurt you. If I can keep her away from anyone until I get her soul back, then maybe it won't be… Willow, please." He waited as she thought, then: "I know… Thanks. I promise I'll let you know."

He let the phone slip back onto the receiver, and then stood a moment longer, contemplating what to do next. He was acutely aware of Mike standing a few feet behind him. "She has it."

"Thank God!"

"It won't be here until tomorrow at noon."

"_Noon?_"

"She's sending it via a secure contact. You do live in the middle of Montana," he pointed out, turning around. "I want you to take the dog and keep away from the cabin until then. If you stay, the first human blood she'll smell is yours."

Mike rubbed a hand over his eyes wearily. "What a goddamned mess… You're sure you can handle it?"

Angel nodded coldly.

Before the morning light had grown much stronger, Mike was headed downhill to camp in one the valleys. Angel locked and bolted the door. He then went from window to window, sealing the curtains shut with duct tape. Satisfied, he finally collapsed on the kitchen cot. Here at the border of sleep his mind threatened to return to its emotional hysteria; _Buffy is dead_. He shoved the thought away and stared blankly at the cobwebbed ceiling.

It was a beach at sundown; a place he had dreamt of when he was in hell, if dreaming was even possible there. Buffy was next to him, sand spilling between their toes in the waves.

"I'm sorry."

She shrugged. "Wasn't your fault."

"But I couldn't save you."

She brushed a hand against his face. "What I said to you… I didn't mean it. I thought I would get hurt again."

He kissed the inside of her palm and it was warm. "Wasn't your fault."

She gave him a smile with ages of sadness behind it. "Why do we save our apologizes until it's too late?"

"I didn't want it to happen this way…"

"Shh… I love you," she whispered, and he caught the briefest scent of light flowers.

Angel sat up in the cot, sticky with sweat. "Buffy!"

He was alone. It was late afternoon. He ran a hand through his hair and felt like breaking down completely. Keep going. Stay focused. There were still things to do before sunset. He got up from the cot with a monstrous amount of effort and felt little rested. When she wakes up, he thought, it won't be her. You have to be prepared for the demon.

He descended into the cool gloom of the cellar. Three shelves of preserves, a collection of rifles, and a wall full of weaponry. Unfortunately, Mike didn't have any holy water lying around. Angel scoured the area and finally found two lengths of heavy metal chain. He had a silent debate about whether or not to get a stake, and decided it would be a serious mistake to have one around a slayer-turned-vampire.

Buffy seemed to be quietly sleeping as he approached the bed. He tied her wrists to the bed frame but knew that it would only hold so long, even with the chains. Finally, he cleared the room of all its junk and potential weapons, and took an IV-packet of blood from Mike's cooler. A nurse had written "Clayborn, AB" in slanted script and he stared at it, sitting down against the wall. Soon Mr. or Ms.Clayborn's blood would be fed to a very hungry vampire. He had a quick flash of Darla's proud smile.

The light was draining, the sun extinguished behind the horizon line.

Any minute it could happen.

She arched her back and took in a gasping, needless breath as though recovering from a drowning. Her eyes opened and adjusted quickly to the darkness.


	6. Awakening

_Thank you to everyone for reading and reviewing! I hope to keep updating once a month around the same time._

_-Anna _

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She arched her back and took in a gasping, needless breath as though recovering from a drowning. Her eyes opened and adjusted quickly to the darkness.

Angel shot up with a mixture of dread and excited anticipation, watching. Her eyes were bright and keen, seeking him out. She was beautiful in that deadly way Darla had embodied. He felt Angelus stir inside of him, aroused. "Buffy?" he whispered tentatively.

She discovered she was chained to the bed and gave a fierce little growl. But her eyes held his. "Angel…" she murmured in a voice of silk. Then she noticed the blood he held and all recognition was eclipsed by a raging hunger.

He dispelled any hesitations and agonies and came to her with the IV packet, ripping it open with his own teeth. He had changed face without realizing it. "It's not fresh, but it's the only thing." Angel held it to her ready lips and she eagerly drank, giving a sigh of delight. He wanted to throw up, but was held captive in fascination and the total allure of her supernatural being.

Buffy licked the last drop clean, and then turned her attention to Angel. She was less than appeased by the meager meal. "The chains are a very nice touch. Tying a poor girl up."

She was almost irresistibly attractive and the demon inside him was aching for her. "It was necessary," he grunted.

"I'll bet… And where is our dear Mr. Norman?"

"Gone."

She eyed him, looking for the truth. "Flew the coop before the fun started, didn't he?"

He chose not to answer and instead went to get another packet of blood. She watched him through the dark. "Ironic that after five years, all it takes is one day to fuck things up. But I shouldn't be so surprised, what with your track record. I mean, you do have the habit of getting all your friends killed."

Angel betrayed no emotion and stood at the foot of the bed with someone Pointer's AB blood. He knew this would happen. He opened the bag and drank the blood, aware that she was outraged at his action.

Fuming, she gave the chains a clinking rattle. "All right, all right, I get it." She rolled her eyes. "What, you want me to spell out an apology?"

He held out another packet and she sucked it dry greedily. He was utterly and coldly detached now, calculating how to keep her at bay until the following afternoon. There was no use telling her about the soul; it would only make her fight harder against captivity. His train of thought was interrupted as he noticed her smiling. "What is it."

She laughed with a cruel smirk. "Come on… How many times have you dreamed of _this_ moment? Your worse half must practically be drooling with pleasure; the slayer turned, chained to a bed…" She spread her legs seductively and he wasn't immune to the sudden heat of want. "All alone in a cabin in the middle of wilderness, mmm. Remember what I taste like?"

Vanilla, he thought in a vivid flash of memory. He growled with the force of his resistance and in a second was gripping her small chin in one hand, pushing her head back to look him in the face. "_You're not Buffy_. Don't think for a minute that you can fool me."

She glared back at him defiantly, brightly. "Aren't I?" She closed her eyes and inhaled slowly. "Mix of leather and that something else I could never exactly put my finger on…"

He let her go roughly and escaped from the room, thinking that a part of him was going to die if he heard any more. The cold spring water did little to clear his mind as Angel washed it over his face. He wished he had something, anything, to punch or maul. It would be so easy to lose his soul in her… He let his head rest against his hands in the darkness. Presently he started up from a semi-sleeping state, hearing her call from the bedroom.

"Angel?" She was calling for him in a singsong voice that stopped abruptly as he entered. "There you are. And me almost getting all worried. Think you can give a lady two minutes in the little girl's room? Blood-soaked clothes aren't in this season, I swear."

Her jacket was encrusted with dark blood and Angel imagined that her tank top must be drenched in it. Nothing like a neck wound to bring out the insides. And there was no way he was going to let her waltz around the cabin. He took a damp towel from the bathroom, then grabbed one of Mike's plaid flannels from the floor and tossed both on the bed. "You can change here."

She raised an eyebrow. "I don't look very nice in plaid."

He didn't respond. He knew Buffy had brought along at least two changes of clothes in her pack, but to give her clothes to… It would be like dressing up a doll. Meanwhile she was intently watching him, trying to pick up any clues she could use to her advantage, he realized. But he had decades of experience in hiding any feelings.

"Fine. I'll wear the lumberjack shirt. You going to unchain me or what?"

He shut the door behind him and slowly unwrapped the heavy chains, acutely aware of any movement that would hint at escape. Instead she lay completely still and waited until he stepped back. She picked up the flannel shirt between two fingers, as if it was contaminated with humanity, and absently felt the fabric. Her eyes slid up to him. "A little privacy?" She knew it was a futile effort, and so did he. "Right."

She unbuttoned the tight jacket and held it up for appraisal. "Damn, you know this is never going to get washed out. Forty dollars, too." She looked at her own blood stains and shook her head mockingly. Without so much as a glance in Angel's direction, she peeled off her soaked tank top and dropped it to the floor in disgust. Her skin was tinged with red where the blood had pooled, and she delicately prodded her neck with a fingertip. She picked up the towel and gently massaged the dry blood away as though she had done the same ritual for years.

He stood off by the door and stared at a spot on the woven rug, but kept finding himself watching her. The way her simple gray cotton bra hooked in the back; snug against her body. The curve her neck made when she turned a certain way. He blinked it away and shifted uncomfortably. If there was ever a time, this was _not_ it. She'll use this to get to you, he thought. He watched a drop of pink-tinted water slip down her shoulder. God, and it's working.

He had only a split second to register something coming towards him, and barely missed getting one of the metal chains in his face. _Idiot!_ He growled and snatched the end of the chain with supernatural speed, yanking it back towards him and pulling Buffy in. She let go and kicked him in the back of the knee, sending him to the floor with a grunt. But before she could get to the door he caught an ankle and swung her down, rolling over and pinning her beneath him as he twisted the chain around her neck. Her bright eyes latched on to his and he became conscious of the situation as she shifted her hips.

A moment later he violently pulled back from the warmth of her mouth and shook his head, seeking for any kind of desperate control. It was crazy, insane ... The demon inside him fought every ounce of his willpower. He grabbed her roughly and pulled her from the floor. The combination of scents was overwhelming; light flowers, human blood, vampire. His soul ached with a deep well of emotion. He couldn't take this; it was torture, worse than any hell.

She looked at him and saw a breaking point. She let herself be pulled back over to the bed, and then casually slid a hand up his thigh. It was delicious, utterly devastating, she thought with a kind of sinister pleasure. "Tell me you haven't been waiting for this," she whispered.

He closed his eyes and felt the cool touch of her hand, then opened them and saw the cat-like satisfaction, the sly smirk.

_She's not Buffy_.

It was as if a switch had clicked off; the fact was so plainly obvious. He stepped back. "Put on the shirt," he said flatly.

There was a flicker of anger and almost comic disbelief. "What?"

"Put it on."

It dawned that he wasn't going to fall for her and she sat down on the bed with a silent fury. She pulled on the plaid flannel. "And you feel all righteous now. God, it's pathetic! Always the noble gentleman." She buttoned up the shirt. "Too bad you didn't think to use all those high-and-mighty morals before you fucked the virgin out of me."

He registered the insult, and then buried it. She went to get off the bed, but he shoved her back down. She scoffed, smirking.

"Come on. There's no way you can take me."

A second later she hissed, drawing back as though stung. Angel dangled the crucifix from its beaded chain; fortunately Mike had a religious streak in his past. "Funny how these things work."

Her gaze followed the swinging cross. "Yeah, well, I don't go for Jesus jewelry nowadays; kinda tacky." She watched him begin to rewrap the metal chain, and half-rose.

He pushed her back again, this time with the crucifix. Flesh seared and she cried out, her face morphing into vampiric features that exposed the demon. Angel was momentarily startled; it was repulsive and erotic at the same time. He yanked the chain tight around her wrists and stepped back. The smell of burnt skin lingered with a sweet odor and she lay snarling in pain. After a while he realized she was softly laughing.

"I forgot; you had years of practice." She smiled broadly. "Making girls scream."

He left the room, her quiet laugh snaking after him into the hall. It was only then he realized the crucifix beads were crushed in his palm. He let his hold loosen and dropped the cross to the floor of the kitchen, feeling a certain heavy dread lift as he moved away from it to sit on the cot. Buffy's pack was still where she had dropped it, partially unzipped. He could see a sloppily folded pair of jeans. A pair of shorts was drying from her swim, a small puddle on the floor. The spell _was_ going to work. It _had_ to work. This couldn't possibly be the way things were supposed to happen. The chances that a vampire had been lurking in Montana… It was absurd.

_I know of you. Angelus. We could be kindred spirits, you and I._

He recalled the vampire's words in belated shock. There was a clue, a connection! Kindred spirits? Had they met before, in a different time? Angel stood up, wracking his memory, and scrambled for a paper and pencil. Draw her out, _think!_ It must have been in Europe. But her appearance had been so… primitive, older. Was she from the Master's court? He finally found a pad of notebook paper. He could picture her clearly in his mind's eye, Buffy lying on the ground. Stop. Focus. Angel took a steadying breath; utterly useless but a calming habit nonetheless. It might take three portraits, it might take twenty, but any residual memory would be jarred into being. Something to hope for and pass the time with, at least.

This in mind, he returned to the bedroom with the paper and pencil. Buffy had been idling tapping a finger against the metal frame but now paused. She watched him take a seat on the floor and set the notebook pad against his knee. The demon debated whether or not to comment, and decided there was little to be gained on that topic.

"You really hurt my feelings, Angel," she said. "I thought we could stay friends."

He worked on the outline of the facial features, carefully drawing from what he remembered. "Sorry to disappoint."

It was silent awhile, save for the long scratches of the pencil.

"I bet you were expecting something better."

"From what."

She twirled a finger towards herself. "This little camping trip you joined. I bet you were thinking, _finally, a chance to make one thing right_. Looks like the powers haven't finished fucking around with you just yet. They take away your friends, your job, your destiny… your "one true love"… I mean, it's just deliciously tragic."

He almost gave a short laugh. "You don't understand tragedy; you don't have a soul."

"I'd blame it more on the lack of _Hamlet_ lectures." She sounded startlingly like Buffy for a moment. "But really. Was it hard to go from CEO all the way down to street fugitive again? No fancy cars or private jets?"

Angel didn't answer and instead began to draw in the eyes on the portrait. The jawline was high, almost aristocratic. At the mention of his fall from prominence he immediately thought of the alleyway battle; the searing pain, the final escape through the sewer, the dirty warehouse where he recovered. Alone. He shaded a brow line.

"Everyone thought you had died, like the rest of them. A bunch of martyrs for the good team, right?" She sighed. "Especially too bad about Spike. But then again, he never really saw fit to tell me he was alive…" Buffy frowned. "Jerk." She paused to watch him sketch a bit further on the paper. "I'd ask you what it was like to watch your friends die, but I guess you knew what to expect. Kinda fits your earlier job description."

He started to draw in fangs, but then changed the lips to human likeness. Despite his resistance to her goading, images were flashing to mind like failed sparks. Spike shoving him down into the sewer, too beaten to resist and return to the fight.

_You bloody fucking idiot! Think I want to rot in hell with your sorry self for all eternity?_

Dusted, the end. He hadn't been able to move for how many hours, laying in the filth of the sewer. The daylight coming in from a crack in the manhole burned into his shoulder, and still he couldn't move. Finally… somehow it let out into an empty warehouse, dusty and cobwebbed with neglect. Days passed, and he remembered counting them only by when the rats came out. Craving human blood with the primacy of survival.

"You're not going to win," he finally noted. It wasn't a challenge; just a fact.

"Such a weathered warrior," she spat. "Look at where you are now. Not such a glorious place, right? Face it: you've lost everything."

"Not yet."

He looked down at the sketch and realized he had morphed the drawing; it was no longer the supernatural vampire, but a young girl from Sunnydale. He blinked, then tore out the paper and crumpled it, starting over.


	7. High Society, Darling

_1762_

_Durham, England_

"You will never guess who is stopping in town tomorrow evening."

"Mmm. The New Year's Ball. High society, darling?"

Angelus ran a fingertip lightly along Darla's bare thigh, tracing an idle pattern. "Specifically, an attractive relative of the Bridgewater family."

"Really…" She sat up, grinning with the demon's face. "I was dying to make a new acquaintance."

* * *

Angel stared at the completed sketch. _An attractive relative of the Bridgewater family._ Emily Bridgewater-Adams. My God, he thought. The memory came flickering back through the centuries and he could almost smell Darla's perfume again.

* * *

"I only just ate the maid upstairs; hid her in the wardrobe," she purred excitedly into his ear. "Her blood was as sweet as the wine."

He smiled and covertly fondled the small of her corseted back. Stealing a glance down her bunched bosom, Angelus whispered back. "The master bedroom has silken sheets. And our guest of honor has nearly arrived."

"I trust you won't keep me waiting." She was gone in a moment, the perfume lingering as a tease.

He leisurely panned the ladies at the ball, catching the demure eyes of a few. The gentlemen avoided him for no reason they could name. A woman laughed over the concerto and a servant passed by with a fresh plate of cakes. He strolled into an adjacent room, careful to skirt the mirrors. Cherubs painted on the wall looked down on him with oblivious mirth. The air of assured power let Angelus pass though the crowd without interruption. A small group of men ceased conversation upon his coming presence and the woman among them shifted her gaze upwards.

"Madam, I would respectfully request this dance," he murmured, gently lifting her pale hand to his lips.

One of the men looked about to step forward. "My lady--"

"I am quite able to dance, Rawlins." She moved with a rustle of flowing lace and hoops, ribbons and a rose adorning her shapely hips and arms. A strand of pearls was woven around one wrist. "You are rather bold, sir, if you know who I am," she said, following him to the dance floor.

He was aware of a strange aura around her; something wasn't normal. The way she held herself was almost supernatural. Curious, he easily settled into the waltz. "I could hardly resist the beautiful Miss Emily Bridgewater-Adams."

She smiled faintly. "Ah, and now I find myself wondering who you might be." They passed by a row of candles. "But I may already know."

In the candlelight her eyes glinted gold. _Vampire_. He chewed on this new bit of information, wondering how it may affect his later plans. Darla was not going to be happy. He, on the other hand… Well, the more the merrier.

"Angelus. You do live up to your name." She coyly let her hand linger on his waistcoat.

He wasn't a fan of surprises, but this one had interesting potential. "I'm usually told I exceed expectations, Miss Adams."

Again came the faint smile; it was utterly captivating. "Then you are in an ideal position to help me increase my talent. In particular, I hear that you have quickly mastered the art of bodily torment," she barely whispered.

"And in return?" He didn't miss a beat, despite the flattery.

"Name the price."

The waltz finished and he bowed. "A night with the lovely lady, if I may."

She opened a dainty fan and modestly lowered her eyes. "We could be kindred spirits, Angelus. I have been looking for a man such as you; a lion among the mewling masses. I cannot stay the night for reasons beyond my control, but I invite you to join me. I guarantee you will be treated_very_ well."

He raised an eyebrow. There goes the night, he thought sourly. "You flatter me. But I don't play teacher to little girls. You want the secrets of 'bodily torment'? Maybe you should practice more. Excuse me, Miss Adams." He bowed again before taking his leave and could keenly feel her glare. Add one more enemy to the growing tally.

The encounter was shortly forgotten as he brushed by a particularly tipsy aristocratic guest. Thinking of Darla upstairs, he smoothly suggested some air on the second floor balcony.

* * *

Angel at once saw the face of Emily Bridgewater-Adams, this time in light penciled shading. Ironically, she had inflicted the cruelest suffering. But the victory would be short-lived. He creased the drawing into a neat, deliberate three-fold and put it away in his pocket, then looked over to the bed, where Buffy was either sleeping or merely pretending. A faint slit of dawn light had crept onto the floor from the taped window. Only a few more hours, he thought. Her beauty was mesmerizing in sleep.

There was a sudden pounding at the cabin door and he started to his feet. "You've got to be kidding me," he muttered.

He swung the door open and only narrowly avoided the bright morning sun that he had already forgotten. "I told you to wait until noon," he hissed as Mike and Big Devil crowded past him with the scent of pine.

"Blah, blah, blah," Mike waved him off. "It's past ten and it's my house." He whistled to the mutt, who was whining pitifully in the corner. "C'mon boy. Downstairs. How's she doing?"

Angel sighed, frowning.

"Right. Shit, man. I have to call Giles." He shook his head.

"No. Not yet. Wait until she… Just wait."

Mike shrugged. "Delaying the storm, in my opinion."

"I know who the vampire is. The one who turned her. I met her once at a ball, mid 1700s England; Emily Bridgewater-Adams."

Mike's jaw visibly dropped. "_Adams?_ The darling Venus of Britain? The lady killed more people than syphilis!"

"You know her too?"

"She was one of the greatest vampires in England for half a century! Jesus Christ, and she's still alive? Well, undead… This is serious."

"Oh really," Angel bit sarcastically, slightly miffed that Mike was more informed. "As long as a stake still works, the history is nothing."

"You're going back to the cave?"

He turned and walked down the hall, checking on Buffy. Still sleeping, or maybe just listening.

"Look, I get the whole retribution theme, but--"

"There's a reason why she's in Montana, in a cave, and I want to know why. Simple." Case closed, no arguments accepted.

Buffy stirred on the bed and they both instinctively stepped forward. She gave a deep yawn and observed them from half-lidded eyes. "Morning, boys. Mmm… Mr. Norman, lovely to see you again." She smiled lazily. "Can't help but feel sorry for you, though; two slayers, what a shame. Even worse than Wesley."

Mike saw Angel shoot him a questioning look. The last thing he wanted was to spill mushy secrets to that one. "Yeah, this is real pleasant chitchat and all, but sadly we'll have to save the heart-to-heart for later." He quickly escaped down the cellar steps before any emotion could show.

"Oh, he didn't tell you?" Buffy grinned to Angel.

"Tell me what."

"Well, I can't spoil the surprise now," she purred, stretching and basking in her secret. "So what's the plan for today? Do I get an orange jumpsuit, a walk around the grounds?"

"Something like that."

As if taking the cue, there was another loud knock on the door. This time he carefully avoided the sunlight, but stopped short at the strange visitor.

A transparent girl peered in, blinking at him and holding the Orb of Thessala. "You're Angel?"

He could see through her into the forest. "Uh… Yeah. Willow; she sent you?" He reached for the Orb, but she held it away.

"She insists that I perform the curse." The girl skeptically looked him over. "For obvious reasons." She stepped past Angel into the hall and he quickly shut the door on the sun.

"I'm sorry, who_are_ you?" She had a blue aura in the relative darkness and he noticed she was wearing jeans and a tee-shirt.

"Molly. I'd shake hands, but it's a bit difficult."

"And you've performed the curse before? It'll work on her?"

"Curses are what you would call my specialty."

"You're a demon."

She shrugged. "Otherworldly figure is more like it. Besides, you're one to speak. So about this girl; shall we get right to it, then?"

He was hesitant and she noticed, sighing. "Look here. This isn't your garden-variety cursing. The original incantation was personalized, hard to revise, and not to mention dangerous for any caster. Now, I can do this spell better than anyone else and you'll just have to take my word for it. Are we straight, then?"

He could have smiled, instead settling for a silent thank you to Willow. "She's back here. Do you need any… equipment?"

She pulled a very solid-looking Ziploc bag from her jeans pocket. "Traveler's size herbal summoning mixture. Quite a good investment." Molly peeked into the bedroom, then entered and surveyed the scene as though debating where to start housekeeping.

Buffy craned her head to get a better look at the girl. Someone supernatural; definitely not on the welcome list.

"Didn't know you'd be inviting Casper over," she noted.

"Yeah, surprise."

Molly held up the Orb. "Casper brought a present."

Buffy's eyes widened at the sight. "_Bastard_," she hissed, but quickly collected her composure. "Very clever, Angel. I can't wait to bask in self-pity. You could have saved time and staked me yourself; _she_ won't stand it."

He turned to Molly. "You're positive this is going to work." It was more of a statement than a question, and she nodded.

"Ask me again and I'm leaving," she muttered, beginning to sprinkle a bit of the herbal mixture.

Buffy tested the chains; there was no way they would give, even with her added slayer strength. God damn it! Angel watched her with that unreadable expression, neither satisfied nor concerned. She laid back and sighed. "You see these fangs?" she asked, showing a pearly pair of extra teeth. "They don't go away. The Buffy you knew would hate herself every second for being a monster. You're not winning here; you're just prolonging the loss. Real heroic, Angel. Fits with the rest of your life."

He tried not to hear her, or hear the grain of truth embedded in the twisted reasoning. He felt as though he had been in the dark bedroom for years.

"I'm ready, then." Molly set the Orb in front of her on the floor and looked up. Poor boy, she thought quietly for a moment.

"Do it."


	8. Dealing with Consequences

_Thanks for all the lovely feedback! Hopefully the holiday break will result in quite a few more chapters finally being polished off... -Anna _

* * *

It was done, finished. He vaguely heard Molly leave, Mike thanking her. The gasping screaming still rang in his ears as he bent over and gently touched a cool washcloth to her face. He wasn't sure how it would help, but if he didn't do something he would lose it. She hadn't moved yet and he resisted the urge to shake her awake, to hold her. Oh God, Buffy, just say something…

The hand on his shoulder made him start. "Give her a few minutes," Mike reassured quietly.

He realized the chains were still wrapped around her wrists and he quickly untied them. They had rubbed through the skin in places. "Get me a couple bandages, Mike." He placed her arms by her side and knelt back down by the bed, willing her eyes to open.

And suddenly they did.

She stared at him, as if still coming up from a dream.

It was strange, she thought hazily. She was in bed and Angel was there, in the night. Had she been patrolling earlier with him? But he was looking at her so expectantly… Did she need to say something? It felt as though ages and ages of time had passed without any remembrance. As soon as she wondered what hour it was, a rush of disjointed scenes crowded into her consciousness. A vampire, the feel of blood, Angel, the cut of chains into her wrists, a ghost and a spell… a curse. It wasn't really so dark, and she could suddenly hear a dog whining somewhere else in the house. This wasn't her home.

"What…" she whispered out loud, surprised at the sound of her own voice. Meanwhile memories kept rushing in: ugly monsters with smashed faces, a cave—no, a mine—in the dark with a flashlight, an axe… The Blessed Axe, she remembered. There had been a vampire, then nothing. The possibility waited there for recognition. She saw it and felt a wave of dread. "Angel—Angel, tell me what…"

He leaned towards her and she thought he was going to collapse; his face was strained with so much emotion. It might as well have been an explicitly spoken answer before he even told her. "Buffy. There was… an accident. At the mine."

There was no blood pounding in her head. She put a hand to her neck, feeling the scar that was a death sentence and not the busy pulse of her body. She closed her eyes and hoped that maybe she would wake up in a different place and time again. Instead she could acutely hear footsteps approaching from the hall, along with a certain tangy coppery scent that was irresistible. Keeping her eyes shut, she felt Angel's cool palm on her cheek.

"Buffy?"

Another voice now. Mike Norman, she realized. "She woke up?" he asked. It was as if every syllable was a breath of fresh blood. She tried to swallow back the temptation.

"Just now. Shh," Angel said distractedly, frowning. He was a little unnerved by her lack of response. Then she was awake again—and staring at Mike. He recognized the look in a second. "Get out! GO!" he shouted, barely managing to restrain Buffy as she leapt powerfully from the bed towards Mike, growling. Mike stumbled back and he slammed the door hard enough for the frame to shake.

"Get _off_ of me!" she screamed, shoving Angel away. "I…I…" She floundered helplessly, the anger fading as quickly as it had come. Buffy looked up at him and was desperate. "Is this real?"

She knew it was before he nodded.

Don't cry.

Stop it.

You're strong. You can deal with this. Calm down. …Calm down? You've been _turned_. And… Wait.

"But I still have a soul," she whispered.

Angel turned away, beginning a slow pace. "The Orb of Thessala. I had Willow send it when I found out."

"Before that?"

"You were…"

"Right." She forced a breath out between clenched teeth, still feeling the fading bloodlust. So that's what it's like, she thought. "Willow knows? What about Giles, Xander?" Angel shook his head; at least that was a relief. She could discern an underlying presence in her mind, like the sensation of a bad memory about to resurface. Hunger. It was utterly revolting. And to have Angel here, of all people. He was looking at her right now, with that sympathetic concerned expression that could melt or irritate her. "Stop it," she said bitterly, crossing her arms in a tight hug. "You shouldn't have done it. It's just going to make it harder. You know as well as I do that… Well, I'm a dead girl, either way," she tried to feebly half smile.

"No."

"Angel--"

"There's a chance," he rushed on. "The Cronos Mirror; it fixes mistakes, tangents in the universe. If we can get to it… there's a chance this wasn't supposed to happen."

"Guess you can't have your Powers That Be pull some strings?"

He shook his head. "I was cut out; they won't contact me again."

"But this Mirror, it's some kind of rewind-time deal."

Angel thought of his day of humanity. "I'm not exactly sure how it works. And… it's in Arizona."

"_Arizona?_ Sun valley of fiery death?" She winced as a headache swept through. Hunger. Blood. Stop fucking around and just drink.

"Sorry," she muttered. "I… I'm hungry, okay?"

Angel paused, then went over to the cooler in the corner and brought out a hospital drip packet of human blood. "Drink this," he said quietly, firmly. "It won't be fresh enough to satisfy the hunger completely, but it'll help."

She turned away abruptly as she felt a simultaneous wave of craving and disgust. Her eyes were beginning to tear up on their own accord. Great, a weepy vampire. 'Cause that'll really help, Buffy. _blood feed drink_.

"It's… I hear it, _in me_. Please." She hated begging, and she could hear the desperation in her voice.

Angel had a momentary flashback to any number of victims; they always pleaded. To hear it from Buffy, to hear it about her own life, was unbearable. "I'm not watching you die a second time."

"It's what I_want_!"

"You want to go to hell? The suffering, eternal torture of the soul, that's what you want? I couldn't save anyone else, at least let me try to help you. Without you… I don't have anyone left, Buffy." He approached her, crouched against the door. She wiped her eyes angrily, as if embarrassed to have him see any tears.

She hated to rely so much on him, but there was a nostalgic natural comfort in it. "You can help; promise me—_promise_—that if the mirror doesn't work, you'll let me go."

"Buffy…"

"Say it."

He forced himself to face the possibility. "I promise." He offered the blood. "Drink it."

She took it, then turned away to drink. It eased the ache, cleared her mind; she tried to imagine it was something else, maybe cranberry juice. Buffy closed her eyes and leaned her head back on the wall. After a bit, she sighed in resignation. "Now what? Arizona? I'm… I'm not calling anyone. Either we beat this, or…"

"We can leave later tonight. There's something I have to do first."

At his tone, she looked up. "You're going back to the mine."

"I met her before, Buffy. I met her back in Europe; she was something of a legend. If I don't take care of this now, she'll just keep killing. There has to be a reason why she's here."

"Nice to know I was turned by a famous vamp and not a generic moron. You knew her how?" Please let it not be a former flame.

"She wanted a torture teacher. I refused."

"Yikes," she muttered. "At least you did the right thing."

"It was because she wouldn't sleep with me."

"Oh."

There was an awkward silence. Funny how that could still happen under the circumstances, Buffy thought. "I'm coming with you. To the mine, I mean."

His answer was immediate. "No."

"Why not!"

"I… I don't want you there."

"I'm a Slayer; it's my job!"

"You _were_ a Slayer."

"I'm coming. I want her to go to hell," she fumed. What right did he have to still order her around? As if they weren't equals.

"I mean I don't want you to _see_ it, Buffy!"

"See…" She realized he had more in mind than a simple dust-and-go. For him, this was revenge for an unforgivable crime, and he was ashamed to admit it. "What, I have a weak stomach?" She was less sure of herself, but didn't want to give way so easily. Or admit that the demon might find it exciting.

"You're _not_ coming," he decided rather violently, ripping the door open with a bang. He wasn't willing to let her see how far off the path it was possible to go. Mike intercepted him on the cellar stairs, frowning.

"Am I off the dinner menu?"

"For now." Angel continued into the cellar, quickly glancing around at the weaponry on the walls. "I'm leaving her here for a while. I'll be back later tonight, but be careful."

"Yeah, right, thanks for the vote of confidence. You understand that if it comes down to her or me, I'm reaching for the stake. I mean, she's a great kid and all, but I like my blood in my body."

Angel gave a slight acknowledging nod and examined a pair of pliers from a workbench. Mike cleared his throat.

"Straight from Home Depot, about a month ago. They work great for fixing water pipes, opening cans, apparently also for torturing vampires—listen, are you sure about this?"

"Yes. Don't ask again." He took the pliers and hefted a hammer. "Just keep her safe."

She was hungry. The slayer blood was still there, barely, lingering at the back of her tongue. Unfortunately, the bitch had managed to kill her Kobolds and now she was stuck in a fucking Montana cave. Not to mention no closer to solving the problem that caused everything. She propped her head up on a tattered pillow and examined her chipped nails. Terrible, she thought. Yet she had managed to somehow cross paths with Angelus, of all people. That bastard. And what a waste of evil, hanging around with a slayer! She sighed and wished for her bath oils; how the hell was she going to get out of—

There had definitely been a noise. She sat up, catching vampire scent. Well, there were only a select few of those around here. "Angelus?" The mine was pitch dark, yet she was able to see his distinct outline. What was he holding?

The flare shot out, blinding her and punching with a burn into her shoulder. It lit up the tunnel with a surreal brightness; a miniature sun thrown suddenly into the darkness. She grasped for the wall to get her bearings, but it was too late. She felt an icy pain shoot up from her stomach and suddenly she was pinned to the wall, roaring.

He had taken advantage of her momentary blindness and driven the pick axe through her into the rock. It wasn't coming out any time soon. The flare was fading and he threw down a few smaller road flares to provide the light. "I was surprised you remembered me. Kinda flattering."  
She glared, gritting fangs. "Fuck you."

"Ouch. That hurt. Though probably not as much as that does," he noted, eyeing the pick axe.

"What do you want, Angelus."

He turned away, frowning, and unzipped the pack he had brought. "What do _I_ want…" He twirled the hammer. "How about some answers, is that a fair enough bargain?"

"Ha. What bargain."

"I'll be quick about it if you're honest."

Her eyes flickered to the hammer and she licked her lips nervously. There was a reason she had once sought him as a tutor. "Okay, okay. I'll play."

"What are you doing in Montana?"

She rolled her eyes. "I'm being hunted. He was getting too close to my trail last month."

"Hunted? By who?"

"Bad ex. I may have been a little too nice to a few dinners and he got jealous."

"And the Kobolds?"

"They were stupid enough to serve a lovely lady. Though I must say, they were quite loyal."

"So let me think." He studied the ceiling, tapping the hammer head. "It's just, you know, _chance_ that you were in the same area as the slayer and myself, whom you have reason to, let's say, strongly dislike."

"You think I _planned_ this?"

"Did you?"

"Of course not! As if I'd give up all my luxuries to hide in a mine and see _you_ again!" she spat. Then she paused, a slow grin spreading. "Oh I see now. The slayer… she was yours, wasn't she? Oh… that's verrrry lovely."

Her laugh was cut short by a scream. He twisted the hammer.

"Come on… please…" she panted. "It looks like you finally got… what was coming to you," she smiled fearsomely through the pain.

"Maybe. But you still have a lot to look forward to."

"I thought we had a bargain?" She began to feel the creeping dread.

"I lied. Sorry," he shrugged.


	9. She's All You Have

It was much more of a challenge to torture a vampire, he decided. _You mean, you had fun._ They lasted longer than humans, though there was no sweet scent of fresh blood; just flesh and organs frozen in immortality. Angel examined his handiwork with a cold detachment; the chest cavity had been opened with almost surgical precision. The heart was completely still. She groaned as he finally took out the stake, and looked at him from under half-lidded eyes.

She dusted, exploding apart into millions of fragments of dust.

Angel waited to feel something, anything. Maybe it was a sense of justice, a sweet tang of revenge? Instead he only felt numb. The mine was silent and empty around him, as dead as everything else. He yanked the pick axe from the wall, wishing he might at least have felt a little guilt. _But you did like it_.

* * *

Buffy leaned in over the sink, peering at the mirror. It was empty; she did not exist. A small part of her was asking how she would ever do her makeup and hair in the morning. She wanted to vomit but was afraid that only blood would come up. Gross. Instead she watched Mike's refection enter behind her. 

"How are you feeling?" He noticed the mirror. "Yeah, that happens."

"I'm okay… Weird, huh? I mean, I guess when you've imagined it happening so many times, it's kindof a relief to get it over with. Or maybe I expected it would happen." She sighed and turned away from the lack of reflection. "This must be hard on you… I'm sorry."

Mike waved it away. "The last thing we need here are teary-eyed apologies floating around. Don't worry about me; you keep your chin up and get after the Cronos Mirror."

"It might not work, Mike."

"Ah, shit. Like I said, so much of the job is luck. Who knows, maybe the lady'll have a little pity."

She half smiled. "I'm not looking for pity."

"And that, my dear, is what makes you strong," Mike grinned. He went into the kitchen to make a ham sandwich. "And what about your rather violent ex, hm?" he called back.

Yeah, what about that, she thought. Buffy pawed through her duffel, pulling out a fresh tee-shirt. It still smelled like her spring breeze dryer sheets. "It's complicated."

"No, it was complicated before. Now it's a huge fucking knot. You know he has that extra pleasant addition to his curse, though you may not."

She paused. "I didn't know I was living with an edited edition."

"Well I guess your friend didn't want you to turn out a funless cranky vampire like someone else we both know."

Willow would do that, she smiled. "I can handle it."

"I'm not trying to pull a Sex Talk here. But this trip is gonna be a lot less tense if you two at least try to resolve a few of those past issues. You need each other, and that's plain as peas." Mike shoved in the remainder of the sandwich and grabbed a Coors from the ever-present cooler. "Want any blood?"

"No thanks… You know, it's been over five years. I was hoping to put everything behind me, move to Italy."

He sipped the foam. "But things have a way of catching up no matter what you plan."

Buffy sat down on her cot, absently picking at the duct tape along the windowsill. Big Devil watched from the hall and yawned. A handful of crickets were chorusing loudly outside. She thought of Angel back down in the mine; he had left over two hours ago.

"He'll be back soon." Mike read her mind. "My pilot is flying in special tonight, he's gonna try and make it to LA by dawn. Shouldn't be too hard, at least you have the sun behind you."

"What? Yeah." She shook off the distraction and began to push old clothes back into her pack. Suddenly she hissed; it felt as though something had bit her, burnt her finger. She looked down and saw her cross necklace tucked into a jeans pocket. "Where were you when I needed you," she muttered.

The outside door slammed and Mike and Buffy stood expectantly. Big Devil whined and padded away. She heard Angel drop a set of tools by the cellar stairs. His footsteps paused, then creaked towards the kitchen and and soon he was standing in the doorway. The silence was thick. "She's dusted," he said finally, avoiding both their gazes. "Get ready to leave. We can stay at my place until we figure out more about the Mirror's location." He was already finished packing the little he had brought.

"You didn't bring the Blessed Axe back," she noticed.

"It was gone. Kobold must've gotten it." He had smashed it against the rock, shattering the blade to pieces.

"Oh. Sorry." She bit her lip, not sure what else to say. The cabin creaked gently in a gust of wind.

Mike spoke up. "But one more big evil dusted, right?"

Angel whirled on him angrily. "Who cares, okay? We wouldn't _be_ here if it wasn't for you—Buffy wouldn't have been turned and god damn it, we wouldn't be going out to _Arizona_, Mike." He ran a hand through his hair, wondering how Emily Bridgewater-Adams could have made him feel so shitty.

"Angel! Mike, don't--" Buffy tried to reassure him.

"No. He's right. And I truly do regret that." He finished the now-warm Coors and crumpled the can. "Bob should be here in fifteen, you kids had better get going. Just take the path on your left, it'll take you all right down to the lake."

Angel shouldered his bag, neither acknowledging Mike nor waiting for Buffy. He wanted to get out of the cabin and out of Montana as fast as possible and not look back. Buffy quickly zippered the rest of her pack together and made to follow Angel. She paused and turned back to Mike.

"Hey. I'm gonna be okay." She smiled softly, hoping he believed it more than she did.

Mike Norman nodded slowly. "Yeah you will."

She wanted to stay longer but left him in the kitchen, also leaving behind the cozy warmth of the cabin, and jogged to catch up to Angel in the chilly mountain darkness. "You didn't have to be rude," she commented quietly and saw his jaw clench, meaning he disagreed and wasn't going to answer. Fine, if things were going to revert back to form.

Roots and stones crunched underfoot and soon she could smell the scent of mud and old algae; the lake was close. Sure enough, the forest opened up to a wide lake that stretched across for about a half mile. The surface was rippling black and reflected a wavering moon. A frog ribbitted obscenely. Through the trees in the distance she could begin to hear the droning motor of a plane; it faded in and out until breaking over the mountain and adjusting its wings in the light of the moon. She realized she would never see a plane in the light of the sun again. Beams of gold would never break through clouds for her, or bend through blinds to warm her bare arms. Can you live without that, she wondered. Angel did it, somehow. Maybe he had forgotten; maybe he didn't remember what to miss.

He sat up anxiously in the plane, expecting dawn to spring upon them suddenly from the still-starry sky. Buffy slept against the window pane and he resisted the urge to move her over. The pilot, Bob, hadn't spoken a single word and was content to simply chew a neverending stick of gum. The loud smacking was audible over the engine and he had a brief vision of a mid-air strangulation. _Calm down_. He'd been on edge ever since Emily. Ever since he'd felt nothing. He would have preferred debilitating guilt over the quiet sense that he had justified the demon's violence … and his soul was perfectly fine with that.

She shifted a bit in her sleep. God, but she was beautiful, he thought. He could feel the demon inside her now and rather than feeling the contempt and almost pity he had for others, this was more like an internal attraction. Angelus was having a field day and pulling him ever closer towards her on that darker level. Just keep control.

_"You're one hell of an arrogant wanker, you do realize that? Always thinkin' the ladies are dying to belong to you. Thought it when you were evil and you're still thinkin' it now, you prick." _

Spike's insult from one of their innumerable arguments sliced up from his memory. He had a point. Though the thought of Buffy with Spike was enough to make him seeth for days, he was aware that she had had feelings for him. For several other men. And of course you think you're the special one for her. Nice to know the ego is still intact. She was going to move to Italy without telling you, is that a big enough hint?

He sighed and massaged his eyes. And now… this. It's not an opportunity, just help her and let her leave you. If you take advantage of the situation she'll never forgive you. He looked out the window and saw the glittering lights of Los Angeles, California. The plane tilted to begin its runway approach and he saw the whole of humanity spread out around him, in office buildings and parking lots and clogged highways. It used to be his city, and still was in a few small ways, but mainly it was a constant reminder of what had been his most devastating failures. And now he was bringing home the greatest one of all.

She woke up looking at the runway lights. Angel's hand was on her shoulder, gently shaking. Buffy turned away from the window and stretched, feeling the stiffness of sleep retire. "Made it before dawn," she commented.

Bob watched them step off onto the tarmac with blank indifference. He lit a cigarette and the red pinpoint glow matched the wing lights. He stood there as they disappeared into the airport's terminal.

"You don't have a car?" she asked, blinking in the bright flourescence. The rush of people was ridiculous for such an early hour. Every one of them had a caffinated pulse that throbbed in her ears. She let Angel steer her presumably towards some kind of street-level exit.

"Left it back up in Montana. It wasn't mine anyway." His favorite blue convertible had been lost years back. Now it was whatever the scrap yard could sell for the price he gave. "We'll take a cab. Hey, you ok?"

She closed her eyes for a moment against the pounding dizziness that was already becoming very familiar. "Hungry."

He cursed under his breath; he didn't have any blood with him. "Stay close." He wove through the crowd of people with supernatural grace, but the security check had backed up the terminal. Finally breaking out to the check-in area, he glanced down at Buffy again. She was fixated on a small boy playing with his mother's luggage tag. "Buffy. Buffy!"

"So hungry," she barely sighed. She strained against his grasp. "Just… just let me…"

He made up his mind and picked her up. "Excuse us, my wife isn't feeling so well," he pardoned, plowing through luggage and travelers. Angel rushed into the handicap bathroom a second before an elderly woman, who began a startled complaint that he didn't hear. Locking the door, he set Buffy down. "How bad is it."

Her head was thumping out a beat worthy of a marching band. The demon was taking advantage of her weakness to worm its way out. "The boy looked delicious, don't say you didn't notice."

"Okay, so, pretty bad."

She stood up, but he blocked the door and pushed her back down. "I'll only take one!"

Angel smashed the bathroom mirror and cut his wrist with a shard of glass. Without a word, he held his arm out to her. She hesitated a fraction of a second, then the scent of blood overpowered any reservations. He gasped; her feeding was like an intense ectasy, and he wondered for a moment if he would lose his own soul right there and then. It seemed that as soon as it started it was over and he was laying on the cool linoleum floor, nursing his wrist. Buffy was frantically calling his name; he must've been out for a few minutes. He sat up and then keenly felt his own need for blood, but that could be taken care of later.

They stared at each other, her face wet from a total washing in the sink. That taste… she shivered in spite of herself. "Don't _ever_…" she couldn't finish.

He glanced down at his wrist. It had almost healed already. "I had to. You would have fed off one of them." He stood and checked to make sure there was no blood on his clothes. The last thing he wanted was a police interrogation. "Come on. The cabs pick up not to far from here."

Buffy took a deep, steadying breath, though it was totally useless and unnecessary. So pretend it worked, then. His blood had satiated her hunger, but it had a flat and almost stale taste. Did the demon taint blood like that? He was brushing the broken mirror into the trashcan. It had happened, it was over. "Okay. Let's go."

The elderly woman peered at them suspiciously as they came out. Ten minutes later and the cabs were lined up outside, lights blinking on and off as if they were attached to the same faulty circuit. A siren bawled from a few blocks down and early morning flights roared out overhead. She crammed herself and her pack into the rear of an ashy-smelling cab and didn't quite catch the address Angel muttered to the driver. She did see the bills get exchanged.

"What was that?" she whispered, once they entered the flow of traffic.

Angel watched the sky-high offices pass by. "The company's familiar with me. I treat them nice, they don't stake me."

"How would they know?"

He nodded towards the rearview mirror. "Gives you away. These guys stake more vamps in one night than I could in a week."

So that was the ashy smell. Slightly amused by the genius of the operation, Buffy sat back and let the city envelope her. She was more of a small-town girl, but a whole bunch of skyscrapers weren't enough to intimidate her. There was a park with streetlights glowing, a homeless man on a bench. More office buildings, all glass and steel—Wolfram & Hart Law Offices flew by. She glanced at Angel but he was purposely absorbed with the other side of the street. Downtown slowly gave way to apartment complexes with bricks falling out, graffitied iron bridges where the trains ran around the clock. They stopped in front of an old townhouse of no particular color or shape. A "No Trespassing" sign lay forgotten in the yard. Angel gave muted thanks to the cabbie, who nodded and waited for them to unload their packs.

A lone dog barked in the fading night as Angel climbed up the cracked stairs to the townhouse. Buffy hung back, half afraid that the whole structure would lean in and collapse on her. He took out a key and after a bit of pushing the door reluctantly opened—into a barroom. Buffy paused. Okay, weird. Small circles of supernatural patrons hunched over drinks beneath the music and a full-sized bar was in operation to the left. The bartender scooted a glass down the bar and then glanced up at them.


	10. The Ninth Street Bar

"Angel. What, do you think this is the Ritz-Carlton?" The bartender folded her arms and glared at him, her petite oriental figure formidable.

"It's just for a few nights, Marty. Rough trip. This is Buffy…"

Buffy caught her quick look of comprehension and was somewhat annoyed. She gave a half-wave.

"This one time, then. And you owe me," she tacked on with a single manicured nail.

"Thanks," he muttered sarcastically, turning to climb a darkened flight of stairs.

The planks creaked and groaned under their weight and finally let out at an equally dark second-floor landing. Angel flicked a light-switch and a single bare bulb illuminated the hallway. To the left was an open closet full of automatic weaponry and to the right was the only door. He took out the same key and let Buffy in. Whatever impression she had gotten from the townhouse was erased as she found herself in the midst of a softly-lit livingroom. A stack of books was arranged next to the couch and assorted crossbows and axes hung from the wall. The other half was a small kitchenette.

"You live _here_? …Above the bar?" she asked.

Angel frowned. "Long story."

"And what's with the AK-47 closet in the hall?"

"Marty's. Here, you can take the bedroom." He led her into the adjoining room and switched on a lamp.

Angel's bedroom was probably the last place on earth she wanted to be, not to mention the idea that she would sleep in his bed. Although the satin sheets looked inviting. "No," she said a little too hastily. "Um, no. The couch is, is fine. You know, I don't even sleep well in really comfy beds anyway, I'm more of a hardwood floor girl. In a completely nonsexual way."

"Oh. …Okay."

Neither of them knew what to do next and there was a terrible moment of silence. "So, were you hungry?" Angel ventured.

"Oh, yeah, that would be good. Yes." She wished he would just turn off the lamp so that her blushing wasn't so obvious.

He opened the nearly useless fridge and pulled out a milk jug of blood, also bringing out two mugs. He could sense Buffy watching him as he used the microwave. "It's just handy, you know, for warming it up." Stupid thing to say, he thought. She knows what a microwave does. The couch squeaked as she sat down on the bad spring and he wished he would have replaced it.

She cupped the warm mug in her hands and resisted the urge to down the whole cup in one gulp. Angel stood next to her, unsure of whether or not to also sit. After shifting from one foot to the other and then back again, he made the leap and slowly sat at the opposite end. They could have been a first-date couple sipping hot cocoa, Buffy thought.

"You told the bartender about me." She didn't accuse so much as factually state.

Angel cleared his throat and shifted; guilty as charged. "It's not what you think. Marty… she was the one who found me, after the alley."

* * *

He had been there for hours, days, ages with only the stench of rats. The warehouse windows stained with dark soot gave no sense of time. Slowly he was healing, and he hated it. They were all dead. He could feel the dried stickiness of blood on his clothes and the cold concrete floor. When a door at the end of the building opened, he didn't look and didn't care. Footsteps came closer and soon a short Chinese woman was pointing a gun down at him, frowning in disgust.

"Vincent!" she called.

"What!" An elderly demon with watery eyes shuffled up behind her.

"What the fuck do you want me to do with this?"

The demon fumbled for a moment and then pulled out a pair of bifocals. He did an almost comical double-take. "Angelus! Everyone thought you were dead again, son. Almost were, by the look of it."

The woman turned the gun on the demon. "Want to join him? This is not the vampire I'm looking for, Vincent."

He put up his hands in mock surrender. "I can get the aura but not the identity, cut me some slack, Marty." He ignored the gun barrel in his face and squatted next to Angel. "Besides, this is a big fish; the former CEO of Wolfram and Hart. Sound familiar now?"

She looked him over, expressionless. The right leg appeared as though it had been through an especially vicious meat grinder and his chest was so bloodied it was impossible to tell what had healed and what was still open. It was a miracle that all his body parts were still connected, she thought. The place was pretty tough on firing employees. She did remember hearing of a big fight a couple of days ago; it had been huge news throughout the underground, but didn't particularly concern her.

"So? I don't need an autograph."

"You hear this?" the demon asked Angel. "Marty, you're the least human human I ever worked for."

"I am _not_ taking him back to the bar. I don't save wounded animals."

"Well," the demon sighed, "Shoot him, then."

Marty put the safety back on the gun. "This, Vincent, is _exactly_ the kind of bullshit I want you to stop." Exasperated, she tapped her nails against the smooth barrel. Someone renting the upstairs would be enough to keep her operation going; it'd pay for the next shipment of silver bullets and maybe get some information from a couple of reluctant sources. And, she noticed, his eyes were lacking that helpless supplication that she found revolting. Well, as long as he didn't make the mistake of trying to eat her. She turned to the demon, who was shuffling towards the exit in order to hide his smile.

"You had better help me carry this shitty mess back."

Marty cleared off the bar, shooed away the customers, and had Vincent place the bloody vampire ontop of the finished oak. The vampire groaned. A few patrons were peering over in curiosity, feverishly whispering. Marty brought out the highest proof she had and two dishcloths. "Scissors, needle, thread, tape, gloves," she directed to Vincent.

"Is… is that Angel?" one of the customers called out.

She put on a pair of thick-framed glasses. "No. Shut the fuck up or I'm closed next week." There was general grumbling, some smothered chuckling.

"Where am I," Angel muttered. The painted starscape on the ceiling spiraled in his dizzied vision. The woman from the warehouse was leaning over him; human scent.

"You can shutup too. This is Ninth Street."

Marty cut away the shreds of shirt that clung to him, soaked in blood. The Everclear liquor washed out the wounds with searing clarity and she examined his chest, needle poised. Several gashes had healed but three were vividly open and tender across the ribcage. She actually glimpsed white bone through one, gently prodding with a gloved finger. "Hm," she commented, pulling the shade off a lamp for more light. Stitching with the precision of a skilled surgeon, she made short work of the worst gash and left the other two to supernatural powers. The vampire hadn't made a single sound, but she could see the strain on his face. The only thing that equaled being badly wounded was enduring being put back together.

Marty scooted down and now focused on the leg. It was nasty, she admitted. More like a mash of red flesh than a leg. She gently dabbed away at the numerous wounds with an alcohol-dampened dishtowel until a pattern became visible. Huge tooth marks encircled the entire leg and she wouldn't have been surprised to find them on the bone break that was mid-calf. "Vincent, what has a mouth this big?" She pointed to several clear spots.

The demon smiled. "The Wolfram and Hart watchdog. The dragon."

She chose not to reply, instead settling for the realization that she truly had not seen everything yet. Vampire or not, the leg was going to take a while to repair. She dragged the lamp closer and settled in for a long evening.

* * *

Buffy had finished her mug. "But who is she?"

Angel took a final sip from his. "She runs a hunting company, kind of a bounty club. Professionals only. I help where I can, if she wants me to." He paused, knowing he still hadn't addressed the real issue. "I told her to try and contact you, at first. I wanted you to know what had happened."

"But she didn't." Buffy had heard through Giles. First that they were all dead, and then later that Angel was the sole survivor. She had been in the middle of target practice with the crossbow and thinking about a second slice of pizza.

"You changed your number."

She felt a guilty sting. "Right… Sorry."

He shrugged it off and took their empty mugs back to the sink. The microwave clock beamed an early morning hour and pale light was leaking in from under the window blinds. "She lets me rent the place and I do work for a couple of the patrons."

"They pay you?"

"Sometimes. Depends how the investigation case works out."

She picked at a loose thread on the couch. The small-talk seemed weirdly banal for the kind of situation she was facing. "So… I'm gonna go ahead and ask the timeless question of: what now? Looks like you don't have too much of a research library." She noticed that the books next to the couch were all in French and German.

"There's an old bookstore a few blocks down that I use. Or I could beat something out of Johnnie the Snitch--"

"Um, bookstore is fine… His name is really Johnnie the Snitch?" Buffy paused for a yawn and realized she was tired because it was dawn.

"You should get some sleep. Um, so the couch is fine, then?" He was wavering between the bedroom and livingroom.

"Oh, yeah. Super." She gave what she hoped was a convincing smile. The bad spring creaked in protest of the arrangement. He clicked off the lamp and there was only the glow of morning from behind the blinds. She heard him linger for a moment and then go into the bedroom. In the relative quiet, muffled strains of music from the bar were audible through the floorboards. Buffy pulled over a blanket and waited for sleep to come as a kind of oblivious relief.

She had overslept; it must already be past noon, she thought, waking up with a jerk. Wait a minute. Buffy slowly laid back down on the couch, sighing. She blinked at the ceiling and mentally traced a thin crack in the paint. You were ready to _eat_ that kid at the airport. Jesus. Not to mention all the verbal abuse you dealt out to Angel—without a shirt, no less. She winced. The faucet let loose a single droplet. No pulse throbbing in her neck, no blood ringing in her ears; she had never noticed how much noise her own body made. Buffy realized she was breathing only out of habit. When she stopped it was completely silent; she was a ghost. She got up and went over to the window, lifting the corner of a single blind. Lazy orange afternoon light eagerly beamed in and a small flurry of dust spun in and out. She hissed reflexively and stepped back as the tip of her finger burnt. Stupid, she thought. What did you think would happen?

The bedroom was muted, quiet. Heavy drawn curtains melted into a thick oriental rug, which disappeared under the bed. Angel was sprawled beneath the sheets, one arm wrapped around the pillow. Buffy stood in the doorway and toed the edge of the rug, wondering why she had come in the first place. She turned away.

"Can't sleep?"

She whirled back and saw that he had raised up on an elbow, concerned. "Yeah," she admitted.

They both paused, as if peeking over the edge of a cliff, testing the distance involved. He silently slid over and she slipped between the satin covers. They smelled faintly of cinnamon, maybe cologne. She could feel his close presence and for once was glad no heartbeat gave her away.


	11. Following the Trail

"Repeat that. Because you must think I'm fucking crazy." Marty swigged a coffee and stared at Angel across the bar.

"Please. I need your help," he muttered under his breath.

"You know, what is the world coming to?" She shook her head and took down a bottle of gin.

"What?"

"My mother always said that. Look. You do not have a free ticket with me, Angel. I do this for you, I want a favor back."

"You have something in mind."

"There's a demon downtown, Lester Hines, thought he'd be funny and put a price on my head."

Angel sat back and frowned. "So now I'm your hitman?"

Marty ignored this and stirred her gin with a finger. "I want his head back here on my bar. And before you say it, I can't do it myself; that shitbag has more security around him than the Pope." She scribbled an address on a napkin and pushed it over to where Angel grudgingly accepted. "One more thing. Not that it's my business, but…" She gave a pointed, questioning look upstairs.

"She's sleeping. Nothing happened. And it's not your business." He swung out from the bar and into the drizzling evening.

Angel shook his head and blinked, forcing his concentration back to the book he was scanning. A stack of Spanish books were open to various pages and after two hours it was still looking bleak. He tried to refocus. But the feel of her body against his, the way it curved just so… You'd be using her if you had tried anything, he thought. But maybe she wants it as bad as you do… Not likely, and the last thing he wanted to do was shatter the fragile barrier she had put up against the inner demon. Are you sure that's the truth? Think about it for a minute… He remembered her kiss at the cabin, the way her hips had shifted ever so slightly, how it would feel to just—

"Some pretty stiff reading, right?"

He started, realizing the bookkeeper was peering over his shoulder. "What?"

The wizened man gestured at the text. "Eh, all these old classical Spaniard myths are the same thing, conquering and looting. Personally, I always skip over the descendent lists."

Angel passed a hand over his eyes and turned a page. The Cronos Mirror was sketched clearly in ink, as if in answer to his quiet prayer. "This is it!" He held the picture up to the bookkeeper, who adjusted his trifocals.

"Ahh," the man sighed in recognition. "Cronos. Yes, it still exists. Out in Arizona, I believe."

"Where? Is there some kind of map I can get, anyone I can talk to, maybe beat up?"

The old man wheezed and turned away. "Late fifties, I was in Flagstaff. Heard a bit of lore, offhand comment. If your friend said church basement, I would start there, outside of Flagstaff."

"Great," he mumbled. He wasn't looking forward to scouring the desert in the dead of night.

"Catch a plane. Get some sun," the man guffawed through a row of missing teeth. He threw a tattered AAA road map of Arizona on the table.

"Thanks." Angel tucked the road map and the book underneath his jacket, pulling up his collar as he stepped back out into the rain. A quick wind lashed drops against his face and he settled into a silent stride. In less than an hour he was downtown, checking the address on the napkin. It turned soggy in his hand then washed down the sewer grate. Lester Hines lived in one of those upper-class townhouses where every corner and niche seemed to have been planned and kept with meticulous care. He eyed it from across the street, aware that he was highly visible to the four guards that thought they were hidden against the side of the house. Definitely short sword, maybe the knife. Go in through the third story window, can get there from the roof. This decided, he crossed the avenue at an angle and turned the corner of the block, melting into the landscaped private gardens behind the homes. The vampire that followed him was staked before making it past a single petunia.

He made his way quietly over fences and avoided the trip wire set around Hines' back garden. The guards were still peering out into the dark street. Some security, he thought with disgust. Marty had probably wanted to save herself the time and trouble. He realized he had actually been hoping for a fight. Instead, Angel leapt for the jutting ledge of the second-floor windowsill and caught it with his fingertips. He pulled himself up, noticed the window was already open, and slid through without so much as a scratch. No alarm. But someone was in the room. A woman stretched out on the bed, one hand lazily hanging down. He saw that she was still asleep and passed by into the hallway.

The guard shouted and lunged at him with a long pike, the woman waking up with a scream and footsteps thumping upstairs. Angel cursed and dodged the pike, whipping out the bowie knife from against his boot. The guard's knee caught him in the stomach but barely took his breath away. He ducked against, then lashed up with the knife and felt warm blood run down his arm as the guard gurgled and collapsed. Angel turned and saw the woman hissing in a corner of the room, her face distorted with demonic features. Suddenly, at the end of the hall a man in striped pajamas appeared, his horns the only giveaway.

"What in the goddamned fuck—Who are you!" he screamed.

Angel could hear the rest of the guards thundering upstairs. "Lester Hines?"

"Yeah! And who the fuck are you!"

In the space of a second Angel was holding Lester Hines' head while his body slumped against the wall in a gesture of decapitated surprise. The wallpaper was soon repainted a dark red. A chorus of chaotic shouting had ensued among the guards and Angel narrowly missed a round of bullets as he ducked around the corner. The bullets blew a hole in the wall the size of a bowling ball. Shit. He pounded up to the third floor and kicked in the first door he came to. Empty bedroom, window. He smashed the glass and jumped out, expecting the impact and rolling with it when it came. He was holding Hines' head by one horn. Lights were coming on now, sirens from down the road, and a handful of guards fanned out into the gardens. All they found were footprints that vanished into the sewer.

Angel came up by Ninth Street and let the rain wash away the stench and blood. Miraculously the book and map were still in his jacket. A sign on the door said that the bar was closed until midnight and he noted that Marty was absent. He set the dripping head on the bar with a wet slap and was in the process of washing his hands when Buffy spoke from a table in the back.

"Nice head. Where'd you get it."

He spun around. "Ah… Sorry. I—I didn't see you there." The lack of any heartbeat had thrown him for a curve. "Uh, sort of a bounty."

She took a sip of warm blood and watched him pull up a chair. His hair was soaked and small rivulets of rainwater trickled onto the tabletop. She crossed her legs. "Got your note. How was the bookstore." She had had a moment of panic waking up and finding the bed empty. Stupid.

"We're going to Flagstaff, Arizona." He pulled out the book and opened to the marked page. He noticed the way she tucked a strand of hair behind one ear.

Buffy peered at the sketch. "That's it? Some old-fashioned hand mirror? Kinda dinky, for holding all that alternate universe stuff. And you really think this thing might work?"

"It has to."

"Good to know you're flexible." She avoided his gaze and instead looked into her cup, as if searching for tea leaves among old blood platelets.

He shifted in his seat, leaning forward. "Look, about last night--"

Buffy cut him off with an abrupt half-laugh. "Sorry, it's just… Well, I was hoping once I got older I would stop hearing that line." She almost wished he would get up and go somewhere else, anything to avoid having the same song-and-dance. At the same time her demon was finding him irresistible. She thoroughly studied the old text as though hoping to memorize the Spanish print, yet acutely heard his foot scuff against the floor and felt his eyes on her face.

"We don't have to talk about it then," she heard him mutter, and could practically feel the self-loathing radiating off him. But even more powerful was the faintly detectable but utterly distinguishable scent of vampire, of her mate… Her _mate?_ Something like a blush of adrenaline rushed through her as Angel touched her finger taking back the book. It was unbearable.

Buffy stood up so fast the chair tipped backwards. Angel stood up as well, though more from concern. "Buffy? What is it?"

She had a brief vision of clutching him to her, hard, panting—it was the demon's vision yet she couldn't and maybe didn't want to fight it off. It'll exploit your weaknesses, she tried to remind herself. Christ, but this was different from killing a goddamn person. The idea of having Angel over and over again was much more appealing, she thought lazily, feeling the demon surge forward as it sensed little resistance.

"Buffy, what's wrong?" Angel took an uncertain step, taking her lightly by the arm. He felt her shiver at his touch.

"Nothing's wrong," she replied lowly, moving closer and sliding a hand down his chest to more southern regions.

Angel jerked back but she drew him forward again with surprising strength. Angelus stirred and Angel admitted that you know, after all that felt pretty good, and why should he feel guilty or worried about Buffy when god that felt so _nice_… "What are you doing," he managed, trying to feel the need for some kind of sane interference. She has her soul, she knows what she's doing, you both know it can't go that far, his mind raced through senseless reasoning that somehow made a lot of sense in the moment.

Buffy didn't answer his half-protest and instead directed his hand to a more comfortable place. His mouth tasted like warm coffee and cool rainwater, and always that scent of something you couldn't quite place your finger on. They slammed into the table, fell onto the table, her mug shattered on the floor. Angel pressed against her and she felt his teeth, now the fangs of a vampire, trace down her neck with a tingling sensation that made her gasp in pleasure.

He wasn't even sure where they were anymore. It was more than he had ever felt with Darla; soul and demon nearly working in unison, the desire unbearable. That soft place in her neck, scented with sweet vanilla and mixed with a supernatural feminine perfume so beautiful he thought it must be some kind of aphrodisiac. Fuck her right here, right now, Angelus demanded so clearly that for a moment Angel thought he had said it aloud. He groaned and tried to pull away but suddenly Buffy bit into his neck and he collapsed onto her in a fresh wave of lust and ecstasy. He had no control; he felt his own fangs break her skin over the scar where he had first tasted her and complete the intimate ritual. After a few seconds he yanked her off and tossed her to the floor, where she lay panting, golden eyes half-lidded with pleasure, shirt ripped down the length of it. He vaguely thought he might be in danger of simply bursting through his pants before he could get them off.

In the back of Buffy's mind a very dim warning signal began to sound. Wasn't there supposed to be something wrong with this scenario, she thought, drowsy with desire. The demon quickly muted the worry; think about it later. Angel tossed his shirt aside and dragged her up as she tried to roughly push her pants down. Goddammit why does the zipper always stick. Her back hit the bar. Everywhere he touched was on fire; how could a dead body feel so much at once… She hooked a finger into his boxers and began to drag them down.

Angel hefted her against the bar with one arm, clutching her as if she weighed no more than a doll. This was it, it was going to happen, he thought. She was his, only his, Angelus seemed to be whispering in agreement. He was already more than halfway to total ecstasy just anticipating the feeling, god, the wet warmth that he had already tested with a hand. She wrapped her legs around him.

Suddenly, the door slammed open; a thunderclap from God himself. Marty stood there, drenched from the downpour and sheets of rain still blowing in from behind her, looking like the avenging angel with a semiautomatic.

"Oh, I'm sorry, was I interrupting the sex you were about to have on _my_ _BAR_?"

They froze. "Shit," Buffy breathed, putting a hand to her forehead and wishing that a big hole would open in the floor. She heard Angel pull up his pants.

"Marty--"

She held up a hand, shaking her head. "Angel. I told you to get me _a_ head, not get head."

Buffy pulled her shirt back on and realized the front of it was ripped anyway. Yeah that floor could open up any time now.

Marty sighed and gestured towards them with the semiautomatic. "Both of you sit down. We have a big fucking problem, and I don't mean your repressed sexual feelings." She set the gun on the bar next to Lester Hines and hung up her soaked trenchcoat. Taking down a bottle of tequila, she quickly dealt out three shots. "You'll want this."

"No thanks, I don't drink," Buffy refused. The last time that happened she had almost stabbed a fraternity brother.

"I wasn't offering a choice," Marty replied flatly and quickly threw back her own shot. "Okay," she sighed, spreading her palms on the bar. "Bad news is, Benny Tito's name is all over this Cronos Mirror. You want a crack at it, you need to go through his crew first, down in Flagstaff Arizona. And I literally mean down; they have an operation running traffic through an old underground church."

"Woah, woah… Benny Tito? I thought this mirror belonged to Spanish monks?" Angel recalled that his last run-in with the gang leader had ended with a stake through his shoulder and a knife in his gut. It wasn't an experience he was willing to repeat.

Marty shrugged. "He speaks Mexican and his granddaddy was a priest." She dragged over an ashtray and pulled out a cigarette, pausing to give it life. "Now, you know how he plays. Straight cash."

"And he knows how I play."

Buffy interjected. "Um, hi. Who _is_ Benny Tito?" The name sounded like a breakfast specialty at Taco Bell.

Marty tapped out a bit of ash. "Runs a major cocaine route into LA. Your undead friend here has met him lots of times, haven't you Angel?"

"He's a psychopathic maniac."

"They're best friends."

"Shutup, Marty." The thought of having to deal with Tito again made him gesture for another shot.

"See, last time, he went to rescue this chick and the chick gets chopped up while Angel gets a stake within an inch of his cold little heart. Suffice to say Benny Tito is not an amiable man."

Buffy glanced at Angel. "He's not a demon?"

Marty shook her head, smiling faintly. "No, but he sure is a fucking hard human to kill."

"We'll manage," Angel snapped. "Anything else?"

"One more thing before you hit that cold shower. People are looking for her." She waved a trail of smoke in Buffy's direction.

Buffy leaned forward, suddenly nervous. "What people." She pictured Willow tearing Angel's skin off after some dire miscommunication.

"News travels. Guess it brought up some old grudges."

Angel and Buffy shared a sideways look. He ran a hand through his hair. "Who did you talk to."

"Hell no. I give you my contacts and next thing I know, they end up missing body parts. And I don't mean fingers and toes." Marty finished her cigarette and watched the forsaken remainder die slowly in the ashtray. She sighed. "Guy and a girl. The people looking for her, I mean."

"Oh, well, that ought to narrow it down," Buffy scoffed.

Marty frowned. "Way I hear it, they knew details, specifics. Even better, the guy? Heard he's practically a ghost."

They both thought of Spike, painfully. Angel ventured, "What… Do you know what they look like? Do you have pictures, anything?"

"What am I, a ghostbuster or some shit? My guy just said it was like they both came off a biker gang, you know, long-time travelers. I think bounty hunters, maybe did their homework before coming into town."

"Damn it!" Angel slammed a fist into the bar and the ashtray jumped.

"Okay," breathed Buffy. "Stay low, skip town soon, avoid biker people with pointy objects. Got it."

"You can add staying off my bar to that list." Marty rose and began to disassemble the semi, sliding Lester Hines off to the side.

"Sorry, Marty," Angel muttered, the memory burning.

She shrugged. "Not that I objected to the view." With a shrill laugh she grabbed Lester Hines and impaled him on one of the taps. "By the way, no Miller tonight."


	12. A Meeting and a Man

_A quick apology for the delay; my hard drive has been less than cooperative lately... But here it is, and I anticipate getting back to some semblance of a posting schedule asap! Cheers!  
_

_-Anna_

* * *

Angel wearily rubbed his eyes as the chilly spray of the shower beat down on his neck. He had been doing that a lot lately, he thought. And now he wasn't sure what he wanted to worry about more; the weird demonic attraction to Buffy or the weird hunters after Buffy. You know, life had been a lot simpler without her... Okay, in the sense that he read more literature and killed demons alone. Over the shower, he could hear her pacing back and forth in the livingroom, probably because she didn't know what to say to him later. He put a hand over his neck where she had bit into him; of course there wasn't a scar, but the memory lingered just the same. He turned off the rusty shower and a chorus of groaning pipes slowly subsided behind the tiles.

Buffy idly picked up one of the French books, flipped through a page or two, set it back down. She heard the shower stop and continued to try and think of some witty remark that might set the whole encounter aside. There was no avoiding it, she admitted. There was going to have to be A Talk; it was too dangerous to keep skirting the issue. She stood up as he entered the room.

"We should--"

"We need to--"

Angel paused, towel midway through drying his hair. "You go first."

"No, go ahead."

He hated starting that way. "Um…"

Buffy crossed her arms. "Whatever happened downstairs, that can't happen again. I don't know how to stop it, but I can't lose control, not when it means… Well, bad stuff. It felt like… Like the demon and my soul were--"

"Working together. I know."

She gave a wry smile. "I don't know if I should be creeped out or flattered that Angelus finds me attractive. How do we, I mean, if you can't resist it… How can you control it?"

He sighed. "Honestly, I don't know. How much control you have depends on the strength of the soul, how immoral the act is; the demon'll try and twist your reason to its advantage."

"So we're gambling. I'd like less than a 50 chance that Angelus massacres Los Angeles or Flagstaff in the next week, and I'm not buying a chastity belt or garlic panties."

"We could try talking," he suggested bluntly.

"Oh right, like, 'I'm feeling a little horny right now, please go away'?"

"You have a better idea?"

"Yes… No." She back down on the couch. "Isn't there a spell, a herby thing I could wear?"

Angel shook his head. "Not if we need to fight against these bounty hunters… and Tito."

"Sorry to hear about that girl earlier," Buffy said quietly.

He turned and went back into the bedroom. "Watch your back when you go out; it's not safe here anymore."

* * *

The neighborhood was crawling towards its own demise; buildings leaned in, incurably hunched over the streets like a row of elderly spectators. Windows were open to the night air, some laundry neglected. Shouting came from a block over, where there was a weekly poker game in the old convenience store. The thumping sound of a stereo bass leaked from a basement. Shadows of people melted back into alleys and houses as he walked by; _el diablo_, someone muttered.

The man he was looking for was commanding his usual post at the corner of Barton and 21st and currently lounging in a doorway. He did a double-take as Angel approached and rose, putting a hand to the back of his jeans.

"You going to shoot me, Marquez? C'mon, I thought we were over that." Angel feigned offense and propelled the man into the brick wall. Someone briefly came to door but then disappeared back inside.

The man put both his hands up in surrender and spat to the side. "Man, what the fuck you want! You keep comin' here and I'm gonna lose my business!"

"So quit. I need to talk to Benny Tito."

Marquez laughed. "You kiddin'!" At Angel's straight face he slowly changed to an expression of solemn disbelief. "Hey, heard you got it bad last time. What makes you think I know where he is?"

"You work for him."

"Hey, I ain't his wife, know what I mean?"

Angel slammed home an elbow, waiting while Marquez recovered.

"Fuck, man! Tito ain't in town! Only guy here is Igs, swear!" A string of breathless Spanish obscenities wove their way into the air.

"Then I guess we'll pay Igs a visit. Let's go. I don't have all night." Angel rolled his eyes as Marquez still hung back. "What."

The skinny man massaged his shoulder. "He's at the poker game, man!"

"Good, it's close. Let's go," he repeated, practically dragging Marquez across the street.

The poker game had overflowed to the sidewalk by the time they arrived, a gaggle of people all shouting and pressing to see inside the tiny room, some angry and others just curious. Marquez took the opportunity to pretend to assert his limited authority. "Yo, clear out! Move!" He shoved aside a few neighbors, who really moved back when they saw who he was leading. It fell eerily silent within the space of a few seconds. Inside, the source of all the commotion stepped back from a bloodied man slumped against the wall and took out a handkerchief to dry his hands. The poker table was overturned, chips and money in a muddled pile.

"Angel," he greeted, as though they were old friends. He kissed the crucifix around his neck. Ignacio Ramón was a religious man, raised proper by his mother—God bless—and the local Catholic church to believe that money and power came through carrying out God's vengeance. And there were a lot of sinners out there. He directed a few people to right the table and pull up a chair, then placed the shade back on the lamp. The crowd began to filter away. "What can I do for you?"

"The Cronos Mirror. I heard Tito has it, down in Flagstaff."

"Ah. And how did you hear that?"

"People talk."

Igs shrugged. "People heard wrong." He smiled and twirled a chip.

"I'm not giving an option here. I _will_ get to it, with or without his cooperation. But you and I both know how that ends."

"Yes. Yes, and I think last time you were the one _this far_ from the grave."

"And Tito was down a girlfriend and half a million of concentrated cocaine."

Igs fingered his crucifix thoughtfully, studying the vampire. "If Tito did have this mirror, what do you plan to do? Buy? It is not for sale."

"I need to use it. A couple minutes, he can watch. Nothing else."

"Ah, see, you say that and I doubt you, Angel. _You_ need it?"

"Someone else."

"Who?"

"Doesn't matter."

Igs laughed. "Must be a girl, right? A lady friend for our _diablo_!" He folded his hands as if about to pray, a smile still playing around his lips. "I will name the price. Because she must be a lovely woman, I will even present this favorably to Benny. Eighty."

"Eighty thousand?"

"To the cent, in cash, untraceable. When I get this money, I will give you the details. If Benny does not accept the deal, well, my apologies. You contact me through Marquez."

"You know I could kill you."

Ignacio seemed to think this over. "_Cree en Dios y serás salvado, amigo_. Follow God and be saved." He smiled. "I think this meeting is finished."

* * *

Angel leaned against the payphone booth, smelling the breath of tens of people on the receiver and staring at an old post-it note. It was starting to get gray in the east. On the other end, a series of rings and clicks as the call was processed. Finally, a voice:

"Do you have your account number with you?" Slow jazz in the background.

"Nine eight-oh-four sixty six hundred."

There was a pause. "Please hold for voice identification." Which really meant a complete identity check courtesy of the Psychic Services division, an additional precaution he had set up. Forget Switzerland or Grand Cayman; this bank could hold the worth of a small country from even the Senior Partners. That was the whole point. "Welcome back, Mr.Wells," the voice finally chirped. "Deposit or withdrawal?"

"Withdrawal. Eighty thousand, in cash."

"And would you like this delivered to your usual address?"

"Yes. I don't need a reciept."

There was another brief pause. "Everett Holding Company thanks you for your business, Mr.Wells. Have a wonderful day!"

The dial tone returned. There was at most another hundred thousand left in the account, he figured, down from the four he had been able to secret out of Wolfram and Hart through fake fees and charges before things went bad. It wouldn't last forever, especially if he kept having to deal with Tito.

And there was someone watching him from about where that last intersection was, he estimated without looking back. Damn it. Whoever it was didn't smell human… didn't really have _any_ scent, he realized. He debated a game of cat-and-mouse, and decided it was too close to dawn to risk it. Instead he hailed a cab and took the long way around to Tenth Street, then went in through the back exit of the bar. A few lingering customers glanced up and Marty paused, towel midway across a table.

"We have a front door," she pointed out.

He ignored the comment, went upstairs, and took a single look at the empty apartment. He went back to the bar with an inkling of foreboding. "Where's Buffy?"

Marty shrugged. "She went out."

He took her aside. "What? When?"

"Little after midnight, I guess. What's going on?" she asked suspicously.

"Someone was onto me; I had to take the long way back."

"She's been here over three days now. They aren't stupid, Angel. You should be glad they haven't kicked down the door with a whole goddamn welcome party. If it was my job, she'd be a pretty paycheck by now."

"Did she say anything?"

Marty sighed abruptly and Angel could tell her patience was wearing thin. "No. Go sniff her out."

* * *

The clothes were going to smell like sewage, Buffy thought grimly. And hadn't she _just _passed that same fork in the tunnel? She paused and listened to the steady drip and trickle of old rainwater through the system. A few drops fell into her hair and onto the new clothes she had taken from the mall. It must be almost dawn by now. She sloshed a few more steps, then stopped again. A second footstep behind her, echoing. Oh please, she thought, someone was really going to follow her in the sewer tunnels? She listened closer… there was a definite creeper on her tail.

"Okay, I'm lost, sorry I can't lead you to the secret lair," she said to the gloomy tunnel, her voice fading into the maze. A rat squeaked from a side grate.

Buffy heard the arrow before she saw it and caught it, the wooden shaft searing a burn in her palm. It was off-mark. A split second later the owner of the crossbow attacked and Buffy felt the kick connect with a rib. She blocked a flurry of fists and saw the glint of a hunting knife. She ducked the next roundhouse and grabbed the assailant's knee, throwing him to the wall with a snarl. Except it wasn't a "him":

"Faith?"

The slayer was looking beyond Buffy. "Wes, don't!"

Buffy turned in time to see Wesley lower a stake and Angel emerge from the tunnel, stopping in his tracks.

There was a collective stunned silence.

Faith wiped a smear of blood from her nose and grinned. "Yeah, I just wanted to see your vamp face, B. Pretty fierce, I guess. Surprise."

It was a little after six in the morning when they made it back to Ninth Street, the rays of sun only minutes from creeping over the horizon. Marty had gone to bed and the bar was closed for business.

"No way, you live above the bar?" Faith smirked at Angel as she perused the liquor selection. It was kinda nice to see him again, she mused.

Angel turned to Wesley, who was looking around with mild interest. "I thought you… It's the contract, isn't it," he said quietly. In the beginning he had been hoping that someone, anyone, would come back—even if it was through Wolfram and Hart.

"Yes," he sighed, almost casually. "How else would I manage to walk around with this?" He pulled up his shirt to reveal a gaping slit above his stomach that looked as though it should have been bleeding out pints of blood. It already had, once. "Managed to scare up a few people, thought they had seen a ghost." Angel noticed a myriad of tattoos; where had he seen those before?

Buffy sucked in her breath at the sight. "What… What's the contract?"

"Extends past death. They've had me working in Mergers and Acquisitions."

"Lindsey," Angel remembered. "The tattoos; they shield against the Senior Partners. Are they looking for you?"

Wesley shook his head. "If they are, it's a rather half-hearted endeavor."

Faith plunked down on a barstool and idly examined her nails. "Yeah we met up—where was it?—oh, out in Nebraska. Same way we found you; rumors through the underground and all that. There's others that'll find out too, B."

Buffy wasn't completely thrilled that Faith had found her, not to mention she was towing along her former Watcher; hadn't she tortured him? The last time she had seen Faith was outside of what used to be Sunnydale. There had been various random updates by Giles as to where she had gone, what she was doing, but mostly there had been blissfully nothing. "So… I mean, what are you doing here?"

Faith shrugged. "Making sure you aren't evil. Maybe helping out, if the mood strikes. Hey, it's pretty funny you two managed to meet up after everything, you know." She smiled, as if finally getting a good joke.

Wesley cleared his throat to change the subject. "And what, exactly, _are_ you planning on doing about the situation?"

Angel was still trying to get over the weirdness of Wesley's presence. And it's your fault he signed that contract, a part of him was nagging. "The Cronos Mirror. Have you heard of it?"

"Stolen by the Spanish army in the sixteenth century, hidden in a monastery somewhere in the Midwest, and theoretically it has the power to correct tangents in the universe." His eyes brightened momentarily. "You know where it is?"

Angel nodded. "Arizona. Thing is, the local crime ring is all over it."

Faith interjected. "You mean a bunch of crack runners collect sacred artifacts?"

"His name's Benny Tito, and yeah, they sell to the highest bidder."

Wesley ran a weary hand through his hair. "If… if you want help, we can stay." He glanced up at Buffy. "It would be the right thing to do."

Buffy noticed Angel fidgeting uncomfortably and decided that it was more his call than hers; she could handle Faith making vampire cracks and strolling in the sunlight. "Thanks, Wes." The best nonanswer she could give. "Um, I'm still kinda stinky with sewer slime, so I'm gonna hit the shower. Sorry to cut the welcome short," she said to Faith, who shrugged it off.

"I'm out for breakfast anyway," she explained.

Wesley fiddled with a stray shotglass and watched Faith disappear into the intense California morning light. The door closed behind her and cut off the sun with an abrupt bang. After a few moments of silence, he heard the pipes creak into motion and the shower running upstairs. "I suppose this is where you tell me how guilty you feel and offer up a great heap of pity?"

"Wouldn't do any good." Angel moved the crossbow off the bar.

"No, I suppose not." He paused. "I knew what I signed. I managed to make a magnificent wreck out of myself, why not sell my soul. Must be hard on you. With Buffy, I mean."

Angel sighed and sat on the edge of the bar. "You know why we can't let you come with us."

"I can guess as much. Wolfram and Hart tainted, employee for life."

"For what it's worth at least, I _am_ sorry."

Wesley allowed a faint smile. "I was hoping, while I was here, that I might find her," he said, referring to Fred. "That somehow Ilyria's death would have placed her back in Texas, untouched." He had a brief expression of infinite sadness. "It was a silly idea." He stared at the smoky mirror behind the bar; there was no man, only a blurred shadow sitting alone.


	13. Into the Desert

Faith was peering into the fridge when Buffy emerged from her shower. "Guys don't even have ice cream or anything, huh," she commented, shutting the door with a soft smack. "Looks like Wes and I are gonna hit the road."

Buffy frowned and continued to wrestle knots from her hair. No conditioner. "Is this the part where we reconcile and pretend to be best friends?"

She gave a half-smile. "I guess it's kinda weird to leave without bruises. But don't worry; I'll be watching to see if you don't turn evil." Faith shook her head. "You get it so easy, B. I mean, come on, you get turned and end up with Angel and a soul when you should've been dust."

"Didn't think you'd still be jealous."

"Don't flatter yourself. I like my heart beating." She smiled with perfect smugness, enjoying a final milking of the situation.

"Weren't you leaving?" Buffy had a vivid image of breaking Faith's neck, and it seemed more and more like a plausible option.

Faith grew serious and picked up her stake from the kitchen counter, as if sensing Buffy's thoughts. "Yeah… Look, if you—nevermind. Watch yourself, B." And she was gone almost as abruptly as she had come.

Buffy closed her eyes, backing down from the urge to kill something. Literally kill someone. With supreme control, she reopened the fridge and pulled out a jug of blood. A part of her was instantly revolted; it's only Hawaiian punch, maybe really thick wine, she tried to think. Coppery bitter salt. She slammed the mug down on the counter and it cracked, blood trickling out from the new fissures. "Damn it," she hissed, feeling hot tears start to swell up. Too much crying, Buff. She heard Angel come into the apartment and his scent grow stronger as he approached.

Angel paused, noticing the cracked mug. Well what did you expect; Hurricane Faith had just exited the building. He let Buffy stand over the counter a moment longer, then offered her a dishtowel. "They're heading back north."

She started to mop up. "You didn't trust Wesley to help, right. Not that I'd love having Faith around for kicks, but if this Benny Tito is as bad as you say he is, maybe we both could have risked it."

"She was here for five minutes and you already broke my mug," he pointed out.

"Stupid thing was too fragile anyway." She looked at the bloody dishtowel. "That knife wound he had…" She trailed off to an open question.

Angel grimaced and turned away. "I never knew that was how he—what happened." He was still shaken. There had been a time when he would have willingly killed Wesley himself, but this… this was worse. He took some comfort in Faith; they had crossed paths a few times in the past five years. Ironically, she was probably the best fit to at least try to help Wesley, if he wanted it.

Buffy paused, then decided to hold back any further questions. She dumped the broken mug into the garbage. Having Faith rub everything in her face was pretty bad, but not as bad as seeing your former friend among the eternally damned. She poured another, new, mug of blood and gulped it down while Angel had his back to her. It was still uncomfortable. She sighed, feeling the demon recede with temporary satisfaction. The tips of her fingers were cold against her forehead. They would never get warm. She let herself down on the couch next to Angel, the same spring protesting vehemently.

He let her come closer. He shouldn't, keep the distance, hadn't they _just_ talked about this? Instead he wrapped an arm around her, feeling a wave of tiredness. It was well into morning and pale sunlight creeped outside the blinds. That soft scent of vanilla. For a moment he could pretend they were normal people.

* * *

Faith glanced at Wesley in the half-light of the cheap motel room. Yellow light from the parking lot threw slats across the sheets. "You can't tell me you didn't see that coming."

"What." He was a staring a hole through the opposite wall.

"Angel kicking you out."

"I could say the same of you and Buffy."

"Yeah, but I liked it." There was long stretch of silence. Faith tapped her finger impatiently, then rolled over to face Wesley. "So what, we're just gonna leave?"

"The hell we are." A car pulled into the outside lot, headlights panning across discarded clothing on the floor. "I want that mirror."

* * *

Ignacio set aside the final stack of hundreds and nodded thoughtfully. _El_ _diablo_ was serious about the mirror. Benny Tito was mostly just angry, judging by their earlier meeting. Igs looked across his kitchen table at Angel, who had been silent so far. The smell of stale beer and some kind of rice made the air humid.

"You are in luck, my friend. Benny is feeling very generous."

"How nice of him," Angel replied sarcastically.

Igs checked his watch. "We will leave tonight, under certain conditions. I will drive, and I must see the girl."

"No."

He shrugged. "I am not giving you choices, Angel. Maybe I will just go down to Ninth Street and see her without you, eh?"

In an instant Angel had slammed Igs up against the refrigerator, a good foot off the peeling linoleum. "I think we should try to, you know, renegotiate, Igs. This isn't going so well, is it?" he growled. Two men rushed in from the living room with their guns drawn.

Igs tried to smile through the chokehold. "Angel, these were … not my terms, you must--"

He strengthened his hold. "What was that?"

One of the men behind him moved closer. "Yo get the fuck off--" He stopped short and crossed himself as he caught sight of Angel's face. "Oh shit man!"

"Get out," Angel snarled, and the two men slowly backed off.

Angel keenly felt Ignacio's heavy silver cross burning his forearm and after a minute he let him fall to the floor. Igs drew in ragged breaths and massaged his throat, all composure gone. Angel stood over him, seething. "You talked to Tito. What did he say."

"Ah, I dunno," he grumbled hoarsely, wincing.

"You don't know?"

"He's been hating on you; you think he is going to just let you walk over him to get the mirror?"

"Did you tell him we'd be coming tonight."

"Be there by dawn tomorrow," Igs said, still massaging his throat.

Angel cursed and ran a hand through his hair. This was not good; he didn't like playing by Tito's rulebook or being backed into a corner. "Anything else?"

"What?"

He took a paring knife from the sink and held it, testing the weight. "You hard of hearing, Igs? I asked, is there anything else Benny Tito said to you. You might want to think a while."

Igs threw his hands up, grimacing. "Okay, okay, fucking _diablo_ … He just wanted me to send him a picture of the girl. That's it."

"Give me your phone."

"What? Hell no--"

Angel shoved him to the side and took the cellphone from his back pocket, flipping through the numbers. The man wasn't too subtle, he noted as he saw Tito scroll by on the contact list. "This is cute Igs, keeping your cartel boss on here. Tell you what, I'm just going to hold on to this. Get up, you're coming along after all," he said, hauling the grumbling Igs to his feet.

Several blocks later and he dragged Igs through the doors of the Ninth Street Bar. If there was a plan, it was in the early stages of development, he thought. The bar was packed and a basketball game was just entering halftime; a pale demon looked like a twig in its Lakers jersey. He saw Marty freeze in the act of opening a bottle and was already halfway up the stairs when she caught up.

"You piece of fucking shit," she stated. The next second a splintery hole was in the wall, the bullet narrowly missing Igs.

"Jesus Christ!" Igs screamed.

"Marty--"

She cocked the gun again. "This motherfucker stole my cash. Eye for an eye."

"I got lots of people's cash!" Igs attempted to mount a defense.

Angel grabbed the shotgun from Marty. "If he dies, we don't get the mirror."

"Are you shitting me, Angel?" she asked incredulously. She looked ready to argue the point, but a crash from the bar area made her reluctantly turn back. Marty jabbed a finger at Angel. "This… This will not be over if you make it back alive. I'm getting tired of saying that you owe me, Angel."

Fine, he thought, there wasn't any time for long apologies or explanations. He propelled Igs into the apartment and immediately headed for the weapons he had sharpened earlier. Buffy had started up from the couch, books and notes sliding from her lap. "What's going on, I heard--"

"We have to leave. Get your stuff."

"What, to Flagstaff? _Now?_"

Igs nodded appreciatively at Buffy. "Damn fine woman, eh, _diablo_?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Please tell me he's not coming with us."

"He's coming with us."

* * *

The night was clear, a new moon lurking in shadow. The stark openness of the desert lay blank on every side; he could see nothing for miles. Angel gripped the wheel of the car and willed it to last another few miles, the speedometer hovering around eighty. A glance in the rearview mirror revealed the same static scene in the backseat; Buffy's eyes glinted for a moment, then shifted back to watch Igs, who was mashed uncomfortably against the window. The passenger seat was occupied by two of Marty's semiautomatics. He didn't plan on using them, but he did plan on making a threatening entrance at the least. Angel already felt a creeping thread of trepidation. He had wanted to do this by the book, try it Tito's way for the sake of Buffy, but that was clearly not going to happen. It was stupid to think that Tito would have gone along with it anyway, he thought. Especially after what happened last time.

_She screamed and suddenly there was blood over everything, everywhere. Tito hefted the machete again and took aim at the other leg. "She was a good woman to me, Angel. But, well, you gave me no choice; a rat is a rat." The cold stab of the stake, narrowly missing the target. He was praying for it to hit home. Tito holding him up, making sure he heard: "I'm letting you live because it is worse than hell for you. You know I wouldn't have had to kill Monica."_

Monica. For all he knew, she was out there in the desert still, broken bones probably picked clean and bleached white. This time had to be different.

"Turn down that road," Igs spoke from the back, pointing past Angel.

Angel slowed and looked at the dirt path that veered off into the desert. "What road," he muttered and felt the car complain as they left the paved highway behind. A line of telephone poles crossed the desert, strangely alien in the wasteland. They passed a decrepit trailer home that had probably been abandoned since the sixties.

"Does this _go_ anywhere in particular?" Buffy frowned.

"La Iglesia de Nuestra Señora de La Paz. Our Lady of Peace. You know, the hideout, man."

"You really just called it "the hideout." Hey that's catchy, why not "the lair" or "illegal headquarters"?" Buffy paused then and leaned in to peer through the dirt-flecked windshield as Angel braked. An ornate statue of the Virgin Mary and a cross poked up from the hard earth, bathed in the headlights. A fine cloud of red dust blew from the car's tires as they got out.

"I'm guessing this is—was—the church?" Buffy knelt down to examine the statue, but felt a pressure on her chest; the cross was repelling her. Oh this was going to be just tons of fun. A vague swell of hunger had introduced itself again.

Angel brought out Marty's guns and tossed a short knife to Buffy. "Put it on your ankle for backup."

She tossed it back and pulled up her pants to reveal a dagger already strapped to her calf. "Thanks for the helpful hint, Giles." Buffy turned to Igs. "Time to show and tell."

Igs shook his head, smiling. "You know Tito will be waiting. He won't care for some bitch with a knife."

"I'm not Martha Stewart," Buffy smiled back, baring her fangs.

Igs stumbled back a step. "Jesus! _Dos diablos! _What kind of crazy assed shit--"

Angel grabbed his face. "Stop talking. Find the door."

The drug lord shakily gestured to the statue. "It's… It's twenty paces north. Trapdoor," he explained. He kissed his cross and proceeded to measure out twenty steps, muttering a prayer underneath his breath. Maybe his sister was right, he thought; move to Miami, get a nice tattoo parlor, she says every Christmas. He kicked a heel against the dirt and heard the hollow echo. Miami couldn't be that bad. No crazy demons running around on the beach. Scraping away the dry earth revealed the steel trapdoor, easy as pie. "Got it," were the last words out of his mouth before the duct tape covered it.

Angel wrapped a generous helping around Igs' wrists and heaved him into the back of the car. "Thanks. If we make it out alive, so do you."

Buffy opened the door softly, the steel tunnel and ladder fading into darkness. She might as well have been descending right down into hell. "Well. Here goes nothing."


	14. The Mirror

The ladder was short, the darkness deceptively thick. The tunnel turned and let out into a wide corridor with pockets of saintly statues in meditation on either side. Smooth stone faces bowed, cracked. Her steps echoed among the ancient figures and she shifted the gun awkwardly; she was definitely not feeling so holy.

"What, no welcoming party?"

Angel shook his head. "He knows we're here."

"Okay, so that's comforting." Buffy saw the outline of a heavy oak door at the end of the hall. Glancing at Angel, she paused, then tried the iron handle. Surprisingly it swung inward, revealing an emptied cathedral space. Stone floor was laid bare where there had once been pews and the Virgin Mary's alter was missing its main character. A string of electrical bulbs wound its way around the room, giving the aura of some ongoing repair effort. "This doesn't feel right."

Somewhere behind the pulpit a door slammed. Footsteps, then … Benny Tito. He looked at the gun barrels pointed at him across the vacant cathedral, then held out an ornate hand mirror, oval top covered in velvet cloth. A massive snake tattoo engulfed his skull. "This is what you came for. Put down the weapons."

"Not likely," Buffy snapped.

Tito pointed up to one of the small balconies around the pulpit. A shadow moved almost imperceptibly, showing a single pale eye. Buffy heard Angel take a sharp breath. Tito cocked his head. "Put down the weapons, or the Dhampir will cut this visit short."

"Do it," Angel hissed. "It's a Romanian demon, like a slayer but worse."

Buffy frowned and slowly lowered the gun. Shit. There goes that plan, she thought. The mirror was _right there_.

Tito shook his head. "Angel… Angel. I thought you had learned your lesson last time we met. Or did you forget? Do I need to repeat myself?"

"I gave you the money. I was willing to do business."

Tito smiled, keeping his distance from them. "Yes. I guess I have something of a… what do you call it… grudge." His eyes shifted to Buffy. "But I have faith that something can be arranged. This is your woman?"

Buffy snorted. "I'm not owned, thanks." He wasn't that far away; maybe if there was a distraction she could reach him off-guard and Angel could take the Romanian thing, hopefully it didn't carry a curse.

"Oh she's good. She's a clever girl." Tito smiled wider, stretching the snake's fangs. "Go ahead—try it. Hey, Paulo!" At his shout, a crew of about twenty emerged from behind statues and balconies, hidden staircases and shadowed niches. Tito lazily twirled the mirror.

"A little outnumbered here," Buffy whispered. "Got a plan?"

"I'm thinking," Angel muttered.

"Think faster." She didn't like being caught in a tight spot and this was turning out to be exactly that. It was strange; no pounding heartbeat in her ears, no adrenaline flooding her veins. For a moment she wondered if she was even truly nervous. She was mostly just… hungry. Always hungry. Wait a minute— "So what kind of arrangement do you want?"

Tito raised an eyebrow, distorting a single snake-slitted eye. "What, no idle threats? No futile attack? Angel, your woman may have the better brains," he mocked.

Buffy crossed her arms defiantly. "Yeah, ok. You talk too much. If you want to cut a deal, say it."

His smile dissipated and he twirled the mirror again thoughtfully, as if testing its weight. He sighed. "I had a woman once. She was beautiful, _una señorita perfecta_, Monica. You know what I had to do? Chop her up. It was--"

Buffy rolled her eyes. "Yawn. Bored." If you've heard one evil sob story, you've heard them all.

Tito paused. "It was Angel's fault that she died the way she did."

"She was _trying_ to get out!" Angel growled. He hated that Buffy had to hear the story; it seemed too familiar.

"The point is this," Tito continued. "He owes me. And here _you_ are… a lovely _señorita_. I think you understand the arrangement I want."

Angel took a step forward. "There's no way--"

"And then I can use the mirror?" Buffy interrupted, ignoring Angel's anxious glance. She needed it to sound desperate, human.

"Of course," Tito shrugged. "It had no use for me. Monica was dead in every case."

Dead in every case. Buffy felt a cold shiver; what if she was turned no matter the dimension? Like some kind of universal fate where no tangent existed. Stuck. Don't think about it yet; you don't know. Just work up the nerve to go along with this. Worst case scenario is you die and technically that already happened.

Tito was watching her. "Well?"

She took a deep breath. "Okay."

Angel immediately grabbed her arm. "No, not okay. What are you _doing_?" he hissed.

"Finishing this," she muttered, shaking him off.

Tito smiled, then gestured to the Dhampir. Buffy felt a cold chill down to the bone as it glided by, her demon recoiling in instinctive fear. A pale eye glanced at her and she froze; it could give her away in an instant. Instead, the thing focused on Angel and drove him back into the wall without so much as a blink. Pieces of old plaster crumbled and he struggled to wrench free of the Dhampir's hold.

"Angel!" Ok _now _she was more than a little nervous.

"I can't have him interfering with our business now, can I?" Tito taunted, motioning for a few of his men to pick up the semiautomatics, and placing the mirror on the pulpit. He casually circled her, inspecting the merchandise. "Let's be clear. No tricks, or you die, courtesy of a few hundred bullets. Got it?"

"Got it," she whispered, clenching her jaw against his breath on her neck.

"Buffy don't--" Angel was cut off as the Dhampir adjusted its grip.

Tito let a finger trace down her back. "I wouldn't listen to him. It will only make things worse for you. Take off your shirt."

"What?" she gasped. "Here?" She keenly felt the collective gaze of his small army.

"Yes, here," he snapped. "Unless you want Paulo to do it for you?" A burly man with a face full of piercings chuckled. Definitely not, she tacitly decided.

She felt her cheeks burn and resented them for giving away any feeling. Her pounding headache was now coming to the forefront as well, reminding her that she hadn't had fresh blood in several hours. Ridiculously, she wished for a moment that she had worn a nicer bra; pink cotton was pretty embarrassing. She tuned out the appreciative murmurs and winced as Tito slid a hand around her hips. God, and Angel… Stop it. You're in control and no one knows it but you. The demon had been simmering in the back of her mind thus far and now surged forward as the headache got worse. It was as if someone was taking a hammer to the back of her brain and she felt her fingers trembling. Tito's heartbeat was incredibly acute and suddenly that one artery looked very appealing. He was kissing down her stomach and one hand ventured elsewhere. Buffy struggled to hold on a minute longer, gritting her teeth through the headache and digging her nails into the palm of her hand. As Tito came up to face her, forcing her lips apart, she let go and the demon gleefully took over—fresh blood was right there.

Tito broke away from the kiss and smiled over at Angel. "I think she might like it," he purred, enjoying the obvious torture.

Buffy bit her lip playfully and leaned in to whisper to Tito. "There's something I should tell you. I've been a very bad girl."

He raised an eyebrow, still smiling. "Oh really?"

Buffy smiled back—with fangs.

It took only a second or two to break his neck, then break the skin. The cathedral erupted in shouts and gunfire sprayed plaster from the walls. Sweet blood burst into her mouth with an unparalleled taste of pure satisfaction. Tito's dead weight took a storm of bullets, reminding her dazed consciousness that there were still some twenty-odd people to take care of. She flung the body off her and leapt up, catching two bullets in the side but landing on the balcony. There were familiar voices shouting … Wesley? A bullet sheared off the nose of a saint as she moved to take the back stairwell down to the pulpit. The two men coming up found themselves on the wrong side of her dagger; she licked their blood off and continued.

Angel saw the Dhampir's sword coming for him as it held him against the wall with supernatural strength. The shadowed androgynous face fixed its pale eyes on his soul. Then, suddenly, it turned to catch an ax that had been hurled seemingly from nowhere and was simultaneously impaled on something that looked like a poker from a fireplace. The invisible force holding him to wall vanished and he stumbled forward, only to come face-to-face with Faith. She yanked the poker out of the dead Dhampir and smiled. "Long time no see, right?" She ducked behind one of the stone support pillars as a bout of gunfire turned their way. "Wes, you alright?"

"Just bloody peachy, thank you!" Wesley shouted from the cathedral entrance, taking down a few gang members with his Colt. The gun clicked empty and he threw it away. "Oh fuck this," he muttered angrily and reached behind him to bring out the assault rifle; Marty had been pretty generous.

Faith gave a solid roundhouse kick to a skinny redhead and swooped to pick up the ax. "Where's Buffy?" she yelled over her shoulder. There was no reply and she noticed that Angel was already plowing towards the pulpit through the remainder of Tito's gang. "Hey don't thank me for saving your corpse or anything!"

He dodged a hail of bullets, tossing aside the men as if they were no more than rag dolls. His rage was so complete he could barely contain himself from feeding off them. He almost wished Tito was still alive so he could kill him again, but slower. A man charged at him with a knife; he broke the wrist, took the knife, and stabbed it back into the man's stomach. Bullets found a home in his shoulder and chest—they would come out later. "Buffy!" he roared, desperately seeking the one thing that remained for him.

She heard Angel and breathed a sigh of relief as she ducked behind the pulpit. The demon was unwilling to give up its newfound freedom and fought to retain control. A barrage of bullets thundered closer; it was now or never, just grab the mirror! She stood up and reached over—

It wasn't there.

Wesley held up the mirror on the other side of the pulpit, briefly meeting Buffy's eyes. "I just need to _see_," he whispered as a half-apology. He looked into the mirror, then just as suddenly jerked it away. "NO!" Wesley let the mirror drop back to the pulpit and stumbled back, tripping over a dead body. He finally found his footing and ran out, taking a stray bullet in the head but staying eerily unaffected by it.

_You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy when skies are gray… I was never meant make it out of the building that day, silly. If not Illyria, it would have been the lawyer downstairs with the gun that no one noticed that morning. I never make it to that last step. You don't see a happy ending. _

Buffy grabbed the mirror, suddenly unsure. Angel reached the pulpit and lurched to the side, propping himself up in a smear of blood. "Do it," he said, gazing at her. Her blond hair was wild and her eyes bright. This was it; if there was a God, he would let this be the one moment where something went right.

"Angel…" Her voice held so much hope yet so much fear. She sought the words that would bring at least some measure of peace. Instead she let Angel gently take the mirror and hold it up to her.


	15. Seeing the Tangent

* * *

_Thank you all so much for the gracious reviews! As I finally bring everything to a close, I hope you all had as much fun reading as I did writing (cheesy, yet true). And of course, a thankyou to Joss Whedon for inventing such wonderful characters to play with. _

_Cheers!  
Anna _

* * *

_1762_

_Durham, England_

Emily Bridgewater-Adams opened a dainty fan and modestly lowered her eyes. "We could be kindred spirits, Angelus. I have been looking for a man such as you; a lion among the mewling masses. I cannot stay the night for reasons beyond my control, but I invite you to join me. I guarantee you will be treated _very_ well."

Angelus raised an eyebrow and escorted her from the dance floor, meandering towards the gardens. "You aim to acquire a teacher, therefore you must think you have some talent worth developing, my lady." He twirled a fallen branch from one of the overhanging trees.

She nodded with a slightly boastful smile. "Quite some talent. I do believe that with the proper training I may be able to approach the art on your level someday."

Angelus idly wondered how much longer he wanted to socialize; he had already decided what to do about Miss Bridgewater-Adams. The same thing he did to any potential rival. "Well, Miss Adams, I've thought about your offer." She already had that satisfied look. "I don't play schoolteacher to little girls," he said, stabbing the branch through her bodice. He enjoyed her expression of shock and outrage before it turned to dust. Amateur. And a pity too; if she hadn't had such an entourage he would've considered taking her in, if just for entertainment. God, the wealthy bitches made him sick.

He headed back inside, shortly forgetting the incident as he brushed by a particularly tipsy aristocratic guest. Thinking of Darla upstairs, he smoothly suggested some air on the second floor balcony

* * *

Buffy tapped a foot impatiently and glanced up at the flight listings for the umpteenth time. Still delayed. LAX was crowded beyond all comprehension and she thought she might be okay with never seeing another suitcase again, especially after packing ten of them yesterday. Hopefully they were already aboard and better off than she was. "Are you sure you can't work some kind of teleporting spell and just zip me to Milan already?"

Willow grinned. "Nope!"

"What's the matter, Buff? You don't enjoy smelly, stinky airports and three hour boarding delays? Come on, it's the classic American travel experience!" Xander shoved a handful of Pringles into his mouth and peered across the terminal. "Hey, I think I just saw that guy from the Brady Bunch!"

"You _watched_ the Brady Bunch?" Buffy smirked.

"Who didn't! … Aaand I'm just going to stop talking."

Willow set down the Sodoku she had been working on. "I don't get it. I have three nines in one row." She noticed Buffy take another glance at the flight listings. "Okay, admit it, you're totally freaking out."

"I'm not!" Buffy quickly replied.

"Ah, sweet denial."

She sighed. "Okay, maybe a little. I mean, it's Europe. It's… far away. Not exactly the mom and pop graveyard stuff."

Willow waited until Xander wandered back to the snack machine to lean in and ask, "So have you told him you're leaving?"

"Told who?" Buffy feigned ignorance.

"You know! _Him._ Angel."

"I haven't seen him in five years."

"Which is like, two seconds in vampire years! You really didn't say anything?"

She shrugged defensively, suddenly feeling the guilt trip. "Why should I!"

Willow put on her serious face. "Buffy, you need to talk to him. I mean, think of everything that's happened to the poor guy. You're his, I dunno, saving grace I guess."

"My name's not Grace," she tried to joke lamely. "And besides, it's too late."

As if on cue, the flight schedule updated: cancelled. There was a massive groan from the terminal and a crush of people swarmed the ticket counter. Willow grinned again. "See! It's a sign!"

Xander returned with a pack of Cheetos. "So who's up for an airport-themed sleepover? Anyone?"

* * *

Buffy knocked on the run-down townhouse's door, still wondering how Willow had managed to talk her into it. She was also having a hard time believing that Angel lived here. He was more of an abandoned mansion-gloomy hotel kind of vamp. The door opened mid-knock and a short Asian woman stared her down.

"Bar's closed for the night. Fuck off."

She managed to shove in an elbow before the woman closed the door. "Wait! Wait, I'm here to see Angel. He… He does live here, right?"

The woman reopened the door and stared at her. "Yeah." She walked back into the depths of the building and Buffy could see a stocked bar in the background. "Angel! You got a girl here!"

There were a few awkward minutes where Buffy stood quietly outside the door, not sure whether or not she was welcome to step over the threshold. Her heart was pounding and she knew he would hear it. Maybe try that thing where you count backwards from ten, she thought.

Suddenly he was there, filling the doorway. "Buffy," he said, as though her name had slipped out by accident. An emotion flickered across his face, but was quickly covered. "What's wrong?"

"Oh—um, nothing. My, uh, flight got cancelled so, here I am. Not that I need a place to stay or anything, I just wanted to see how you were doing." Stupid thing to say, she thought immediately.

Angel frowned. "You mean your flight to Milan."

Ouch. He already knew. Damn it, Willow. "How did you… Yeah."

"You didn't have to stop by."

God, this was getting bad way too fast. Just spit out what you wanted to say and get it over with, Buffy. "Look, I just wanted to let you know that, I mean, if you still want to stay in touch… That would be okay." She tried to smile but it was like trying to converse with a wall. "This… is not going so well," she muttered, sighing.

Angel ran a hand through his hair. "You could have at least had Willow call me, if you didn't have the guts to tell me yourself."

She brushed off a weird sense of deja-vu. "Angel, I… It's been a long time. Things are different now."

He shifted in the doorway, avoiding a spot of late afternoon sun. It would be impossible to put all his thoughts, all those things he'd wanted to say, into a cohesive sentence right now. It was hard to even look at her. "I understand. You don't owe me anything, Buffy."

She gave a wistful smile, trying to make out his face from the shadows. "This isn't exactly how we pictured things ending, is it."

He paused for a moment. "I always just wanted you to be happy. Are you, now?"

Buffy bit her lip and glanced down. She remembered his touch like a flash of heat, cool as it was. "Yeah, I am."


End file.
